The Quest
by ceomrr
Summary: Four months after her encounter with Cole Maddox, Beckett is still the one thing she never wanted to be: afraid. She embarks on a personal quest to restore her physical confidence. Castle is not there to help, but someone else is, someone who is looking for far more than her physical redemption. Story will be a hard "M" in subsequent chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"Martin, the Director on Line 1."

He picked up the phone. "Martin Danberg, sir." (Pause)

"Yes sir, I understand. She is apparently on the island of Melos in the Aegean Sea. Mr. Castle is not with her. She appears to be on an extended vacation." (Pause)

"Sir, I would request an entry in my service record indicating that the actions we are considering are legal…yes sir, I understand…a drone and Hellfire missile will not work. But sir, terminate with extreme prejudice?..." (Pause)

"Yes sir, I'm on my way." Hanging up, he punched the intercom button. "Susan, get me on the evening American flight out of Dulles to Rome. Call the station and tell them I'm coming…and will need further transportation to the island of Melos. Thanks."

He hoped that Susan had overheard his conversation with the Director. Might come in handy at a Congressional hearing if things went south on this one.

He punched the intercom button again. "And after you're done booking flights, could you get me Jordan Shaw please? Thanks."

The sun slipped above the azure Aegean Sea, casting the landscape in harsh morning light. The white sand of the beach was warm beneath her feet as she jogged along the coast heading towards the stone amphitheater that was to be the sight of her trial. This was to be the day that determined if she was ready to rejoin the New York Police Department. It was to be a tough, vigorous test, for a reversal here meant much more than the need for additional training and conditioning. It meant a probable end to her career as a cop, and she did not know what she would do if that happened.

The months since her brutal beating at the hands of Cole Maddox had been particularly hard for New York Police Department Detective Kate Beckett. Medical care and physical therapy had helped repair the most serious damage to her left arm and shoulder. At five foot nine inches and 135 pounds she looked like the epitome of a physically fit woman nearing her mid-30s.

But the damaged inflicted by Maddox had been much more than physical. For while her wounds had for the most part healed, her ability to overcome the fear of being badly beaten again if she should encounter Maddox presented a more formidable challenge she had yet to overcome. To put it bluntly, Kate Beckett was afraid; afraid of being beaten again, afraid of posing a danger to her fellow detectives on her team, and afraid that her inability to deal with a physical situation would put her lover in harm's way.

Chief Gates had sensed the problem when she was debriefed by Doctor Burke. She had not accepted Beckett's resignation; there were bureaucratic paperwork wickets to be cleared before the detective's hasty action would be reflected in the 12th Precinct's personnel roster. Gates had hoped Beckett would continue seeing Burke, her medical benefits were still extant, and was relieved when the doctor expressed to the chief, despite doctor-patient privilege, his belief that she was not ready to return to full active duty.

Beckett's relationship with Castle had certainly helped in the healing process. She felt loved in a way that she never been since her mother's passing. He was lavish in his devotion and attention to her needs, sparing no expense. She was eating better than ever before, spending about half her time either in his loft or out at the Hamptons, with the full acceptance of both Martha and Alexis. Her sex life, once almost an afterthought in the daily grind in the 12th, was now a much larger part of her life. She found her physical relationship with Castle both liberating and celebratory at the same time. And even though she had stayed away from the 12th, she and Castle had spent considerable off duty hours with the boys and Lanie.

But…but…something was still not right. Rick knew it. Early on he had sensed her hesitation when they talked about her going back into the line of work she was clearly good at, maybe not with the NYPD, but perhaps in another local area, or the Hamptons, or even as a private investigator. But over the ensuing months, Castle began to feel that it was more than just hesitation and uncertainty on her part. Sometimes at night, after a oftentimes torrid bout of sex, as they were both drifting off to sleep, his hand would inadvertently drop on to Kate's left shoulder or finely muscled abdomen. She would flinch, sit up, and vainly try to suppress a mild tremor that was clearly evident even in the dim bedroom light. Castle had initially been able to ease her back down into a horizontal position, wrapping his arms around her to still her trembling. But of late, his lover would resist his efforts, get up, put on a robe, and go into the study or living room were Castle would find her laid out in an uneasy sprawl or wrapped in a fetal position in the morning.

She refused to talk about it, saying it was just his hyperactive imagination that perceived her "problem." So he elected to try all sorts of remedies. At his instigation, almost nightly sexual activity pushed the envelope, physically, further than either of them had ever gone with each other. They had enjoyed numerous weekends in the Hamptons away from both Martha and Alexis, had camped for a week in the Adirondacks, and had even taken a long hike on part of the Appalachian Trail that traversed New York and Massachusetts. Kate's endurance, stamina, and strength were better than he ever recalled. She could outlast Castle easily now, be it on a hiking trail, running along the Long Island Sound, or in bed. But still…still…something was not right. He sensed it, and did not know any further remedies he could suggest.

Beckett, of course, did know. She was afraid. Not the post-traumatic stress disorder she had suffered from previously after being shot, but a different kind of fear, that of physical confrontation. Even with the bruises to her neck, sides, and abdomen long since healed, she could still feel Cole Maddox's clubbing blows to her neck, the repeated knees into her stomach and groin that had preceded her being thrown off the hotel roof. She had tried all sorts of physical activity to overcome her fear. Aside from the normal conditioning and strength routines, she had increasingly worked on a heavy bag, not at the 12th Precinct gym, but at a private gym that Rick frequented when the "fatigue" of writing required some physical outlet other than sex. She would finish a strenuous workout soaked in sweat, take off the light gloves, strip down and take a long hot shower…and then at night…in bed…her fears would return.

Beckett finally decided she needed to face her fear of a physical encounter head on. Boxing or martial arts was an option, but she knew she needed to be placed in a situation where her very existence would again be called into question. Yes, Maddox was probably available, if she really wanted to die, but barring that, she needed to participate in some sort of encounter where she would be tried physically far beyond the acceptable norms of western culture, or at least the laws of New York City.

In the early fall an opportunity arose. Paula was insisting that Castle go on a European book tour. The Nicki Heat series was as popular internationally as stateside. Translations into Spanish, German, Italian and French guaranteed any book signings in European capitals would be well attended. The publisher was willing to bankroll a four week tour, recognition that like the movie industry, the book publishing business was getting an increasing part of its revenues from foreign sales.

Castle was willing to go, as long as Kate could go with him. The publisher said "yes," after Nicki Heat was the subject of the bestselling series, but the writer was surprised when his lover suggested she spend most of the month somewhere in the Mediterranean, soaking up the sun, and continuing her physical conditioning, while he faced his devoted fans in Paris, Berlin, Warsaw, Prague, Vienna, and Rome. Castle was surprised and somewhat disappointed that "Nicki Heat" would not be with him. But her enthusiasm for her "southern venture" as she called it was infectious. He agreed, and told the publisher he would cover Kate's travel on his own.

And as usual, he knew someone…who knew someone…that suggested that what the New York detective was looking for in terms of climate, relaxation, and physical training could best be found on the Greek island of Melos in the Aegean Sea southeast of Athens. There were quaint resort villas to be rented, gorgeous beaches for sunbathing and running, and a gymnasia as it was called on the internet, that featured physical conditioning in the classic manner of the ancient Melonians and Greeks.

The two lovers would part company in Paris. Rick would begin the "rigors" of book signings and starlit parties, while his better half caught a flight to Athens, and headed south on a tourist boat that made weekly calls at Melos. No internet, no phones…God what would he do? He would miss her so much. But Kate was clearly happy with the overseas arrangements. The day before they flew out of JFK she had her long tresses cut back to the shorter version she had worn when she had first met Castle more than four years ago.

He packed three suitcases for the book tour. She packed for the Greek isles and Mediterranean in an overnight bag suitable for a weekend in the Hamptons.

In Paris they had one day and night together. They took in the Louvre, where one of the exhibits they viewed was the Venus de Melos. The ancient sculpture, though shorn of its arms over the centuries, was the embodiment of classical beauty in ancient times: thick thighs, large breasts and, at least by modern standards of beauty, a bit overweight. As Castle lay in bed at night, gazing at the toned muscles, firm curves, and strong thighs of his lover, he whispered, "Kate, don't turn into a modern version of that woman."

Beckett rolled towards him, her lithe frame punctuated by breasts perfectly proportioned for her size. "Don't worry Rick. I'll be a good girl. No Greek goddesses for me. Think Xena Warrior princess instead."

Castle momentarily fantasized on Beckett being dressed up in black leathers and silver studs, but drove the vision out of his mind. It would be hard enough being away from her almost a month; no need to think of her as some modern day Athena smoting the Trojans before the mighty gates of Troy. Instead, he whispered, "And let your hair grow back out," and kissed her lightly on the shoulder. She needed no further invitation and rolled on top of him for their final bout of torrid lovemaking before going their separate ways.

About the time Castle began his third day of book signing at still another Parisian bookstore, the tourist boat tied up at the wharf in Melos. Beckett lightly stepped on to shore and looked for the owner of the villa she had arranged to stay at for her sojourn. A stooped, weathered old man lingering at the edge of the crowd of people debarking for what the tourist pamphlets promised to be a "very peaceful place for a rest, full of lots of magic places where times seems to have stopped."

A brief nod of the head assured Beckett that he was her man. Closing him, she queried, "Kate Beckett…?"

He smiled. "Yes, so glad to meet you. I trust you had a safe trip. These are difficult times for us Greeks, with the economy. There are so many cutbacks affecting the tourist trade. I hope the food and courtesy of the crew met your approval."

"Yes, everything was fine," she replied, but admitted to herself she was glad to be on dry land again. A sailor she was not.

"Good, I am Artemis. I own the villa you are staying in, and the gymnasia that, if I understand Mr. Castle correctly, you want to use during your stay with us."

The Greek and New York detective began walking up the hill together, deep in conversation as to what she wanted to experience during her stay. At one point in the conversation he stopped and shook his head. "No, I will not arrange that. What if you are hurt?"

Beckett replied, "I will sign whatever release forms you require. You will not be liable. I thought you had agreed to my terms with Mr. Castle before."

"Yes, I did. But he did not mention that." Of course he didn't, thought Beckett, because I never told him.

"Well, you have your money…and I suspect Rick has been overly generous to ensure you fulfill my every desire. I will not be a bother to you. I am here for a special purpose."

"Artemis, you need to help me on this. I know of no other way to get my life back. I love Castle, but do not know if that will be sufficient for me for the rest of my life. I need a job, and being a cop is what I know…and do best…or at least it was. But I cannot return to active duty the way I am right now. I need my confidence restored…I am tired of being afraid."

Nearing the top of the hill, the wizened Greek looked at her. Tears were welling in her eyes, her left arm grasping his in desperation. He stopped. "Okay, I will see what I can do. I think I know of a place that might have what you are looking for. I will not promise…but will make every effort to find what you want."

"Thank you," Beckett replied, and lightly kissed him on his forehead. "Now show me my villa."

Beckett slowed down to a walk as she neared the top of the small rise on which the gymnasia was located. In the early morning light she looked around her, but could see no sign of her opponent, or anyone for that matter, enroute. So she elected to do some additional bending and stretching before the beginning of the contest. The hot Mediterranean sun felt good on her smoothly taught muscles. The low angle of the sun cast a sharp shadow on the ground below, elongating her firm curves, and stretching out her already long legs and firm, strong thighs. "How Castle would love to see how I look now," she thought. "No Venus de Melos here!"

She felt good. The sun, heat, and Mediterranean diet had further improved her already sleek body. She had always been proud of her physical attributes, and almost two weeks on Melos had done nothing but accentuate her highly toned figure, improving what already had made her the envy of the other female cops in the 12th, or in the entire NYPD for that matter. Her running briefs were high and tapered sensuously towards her groin, the fine chord at their top gliding over her shapely hips. Her running shirt, knotted about her waist, covered her sports bra ripe with the swell of her breasts. No, she wasn't a Marilyn Monroe…or a Venus de Melos…type. She smiled thinking of Castle's concerns, but her breasts, "points way up firm and high" as Bob Seger had sung in "Night Moves," complemented the rest of her body's overall layout. Even thinking about her body resulted in a gathering warmth in her center, betraying her longing for Castle, to lay with him, to feel his own heat, his lips, those delicious fingers that always knew what she wanted…and where. Oh how she longed to feel him, long and engorged, within her to the hilt. She missed him, God how she missed him.

But this had to be done. Either she could…or she couldn't…go back to the 12th. She had to know…and she thought that in the end Castle would understand why she had done what she was about to do.

She entered at the top of the ancient stone amphitheater of Melos, built during the 5th century BC after the sacking of Melos by the Athenians (yes Beckett did read). The "NYPD Homicide Hottie" as she had once been described in a magazine article (which she hated and blamed Castle's publisher for) marveled at the ancient construction hewn out of the side of the hill above an inlet from the Aegean. But any contemplation of ancient rites and times were stillborn as she spied her opponent on the floor of the theater, still deeply enshrouded in morning shadows.

Beckett carefully walked down the steps of the amphitheater towards the rock strewn floor. Approaching the bottom, she could more clearly see her adversary. She noted the muscularity in the thick shoulders, pronounced pectorals, and broad back of the woman whom Artemis had told her was a Sicilian bouncer in one of the local bars. Her thick, hard calf muscles and quadriceps that rippled at the slightest movement offset narrow hips and a firm, tight waist. Her breasts, larger than Beckett's but still reflective of an athletic woman who worked out, were covered in a leather-stretched halter, laced together with whipcord at the front. A matching leather-framed muslin wrapping covered her womanhood and buttocks. Her forearms, biceps and triceps stood out in bold relief, attesting to many hours in the local gymnasia. With the exception of dark hair visible under armpits, her entire body shimmered in a light coating of oil which she apparently had just finished applying

Beckett's request had been granted. Artemis was convinced that any male opponent he selected would be noticed by the local constabulary and cause all sorts of complications. But more latitude would be granted to a female adversary, and however reluctantly he had followed the American's wishes. He had chosen well. Zenobia, probably not her real name but no one cared to know since she was taking her wages under the table, was a bouncer at one of the local bars. Her normal prey were drunk northern European or American tourists who were getting too familiar with the barmaids who were willing to meet their demands…but only up to a particular point. When the customers got too familiar with the help, Zenobia would be called upon. Though her services were infrequently required, she kept in shape for any possible infraction. So when approached by Artemis, who had seen her in action, she responded willingly, particularly when accompanied by an amount of cash worth more than a month's work in the bar. So an American woman wanted a fight in the ancient arena? That was a strange request, but she had never backed away from a challenge, particularly one that paid so well. With the wages earned for this single encounter she could return to Catania on the next boat. Let the games begin.


	2. Chapter 2

Zenobia acknowledged Beckett's arrival with a curt nod and a guttural grunt. She had been intently studying her opponent as she carefully worked her way down the stone steps to the theater floor, and she wasn't impressed. The American's chest and stomach area lacked the muscular definition of the Sicilian. Her long legs, glistening in a sheen of fine sweat, looked strong enough, but lacked the thickness of her opponent. The Sicilian's breasts were clearly larger and more pronounced, but Zenobia knew from experience as a bar bouncer on the mainland that large breasts, rather than being an advantage in a close order fight, were oftentimes merely lucrative targets for flashing nails and driving fists.

Beckett stopped on the final step before reaching the floor of the amphitheater and turned to remove her running shirt. Almost instantly she realized her mistake, but it was too late. Quickly the callused, dark-skinned hands of the quick-moving Sicilian rudely grasped her ankles, and forcefully jerked inward. Beckett fell flat on her face and chest as she felt herself being dragged on to the floor of the arena. With the now-hampering shirt riding up over her head her legs kicked fruitlessly as she tried to put some distance between her and her attacker. But her efforts failed. Two sharp stabs of pain to her kidneys followed by savage blow to her left side told her the Sicilian bitch had either foreknowledge of, or had spotted, the remnants of her wounds at the hands of Cole Maddox. Clearly she was intent on inflicting a degree of fear and helplessness in her opponent, just like Maddox had done four months ago.

Knowing that to be the case, and being the very reason she had requested Artemis to arrange this contest, Beckett rose to a higher level of energy than she had felt in months. Sensing a third blow inbound to her kidneys, she raised her upper body off the floor, rammed her head back into her opponent's groin, and quickly twisted sideways, her long, slender yet powerful legs ensnaring the Sicilian's thicker, heavyset thighs.

Her opponent was surprised at Beckett's quick response to the unceremonious beginning of their contest. But as she kicked away the American's legs, rolled to her left and regained her feet, she realized that looks were deceptive. This woman, though less muscular and clearly weighing much less than her, was skilled in martial combat. Rather than some sort of pervert getting off on being beaten up (and she had had more than one man who enjoyed that kind of recreation, and paid very well for the pleasure), this woman had something to prove to herself. And Zenobia, apparently, was the final test. Fine, she would make it worth the American's time and money, and perhaps enjoy it. It would certainly be better trying to get off flaccid male tourists awash in their own fantasies of being dominated.

For her part, Beckett recognized that she had gotten what she asked for…and paid for. Someone who would be brutal, would fight dirty, and had little concern on beating up someone smaller than her. As the detective ducked a wide swinging right fist, but then felt the Sicilian's knee ramming hard into her abdomen, knocking her back down to the arena floor, fear began to fog her thinking and actions. She was no longer on Menos, but instead atop the Rossyln Hotel. Visions of Cole Maddox, and his beating of her on the hotel roof now merged with that of the woman before her, who dropped a right knee hard into Beckett's groin. Forcing her thighs apart, the Sicilian dropped down atop her opponent, her arms scrambling to pin the American's hands to her sides.

Beckett struggled in vain to roll free. But Zenobia was simply too heavy, with her legs spread wide to resist any turning movement. The Sicilian lowered her head close to Beckett's and smiled, her breath moist and reeking of garlic. But the detective did not see a bar bouncer, but rather Cole Maddox stating coldly, "You have no idea what you're up against."

As Beckett struggled to keep her arms from being forced into her sides, Zenobia suddenly drove her head, mouth wide open, between the American's breasts and bit down hard. Coming on top of her gunshot scar, the pain was excruciating. Beckett screamed in pain as the Sicilian rend her teeth back and forth like some rabid dog. But the running shirt and sports bra were too thick for deep penetration, so the bar bouncer raised her head, laughed gleefully at her opponent's pain, and kneed her again in the groin. But the shift in location afforded Beckett, while crying out in anguish, the opportunity to fold her left leg up nearly under her buttocks, and pushing down hard, flipped her torso to the right, throwing Zenobia off and into the dirt.

But the bouncer did not stay down long. Quickly regaining her feet, as Beckett raised her arms to remove the tattered remnants of the running shirt, Zenobia drove a crushing fist into her abdomen, followed by a quick blow to her chest, and two strikes to her face. Beckett paused, half upright, ensnared in her shirt, and toppled to the arena floor, stunned and now bleeding from mouth and nose, in addition to the excruciating pain between her breasts.

In a flash the Sicilian was on her, flipping her over on her stomach. Callused hands grabbed the American by the throat and drove her head brutally into the arena floor, filling her mouth and nose with sand. Choking and gasping for air, the detective sought in vain to pry her tormentress' hands away from her throat.

Zenobia released her chocking grasp of Beckett's neck, not wanting to render her opponent helpless so early in the contest. Instead she elected to pursue a slower, and more painful path to victory. Half rising above her prostrate victim, the Sicilian drove her right knee into Beckett's lower back. Then quickly reversing her position, she straddled the detective's narrow waist just above her buttocks and clasping her fists together drove clubbing blows into the upper thigh areas of her victim. Muffled gasps of pain indicated the effectiveness of this tactic, and after repeating the blows, the bouncer rose to a half crouch, spun around on Beckett's back, and laced her thick fingers beneath the detective's chin. Pulling backwards and upwards, the bouncer forced Beckett's head back at an acute angle to the rest of her body, immobilized under the weight of her Sicilian tormentor. The pressure on the detective's spine was intense, the pain excruciating, and as Zenobia arched further away, her muscles quivered under the strain. With her full weight now bearing on Beckett's lower back, she bent the American nearly in half, her victim's breasts straining against the confines of the sports bra, wanting to jut outward, free from this unnatural position. The searing pain evident in the American's contorted face and strangled gasps for air signaled to Zenobia that her opponent was nearing the brink of surrendering to her dominatrix.

Sweat was coursing from both nearly nude bodies now, and mixed with the arena dirt and blood freely flowing from the American's nose and mouth, each combatant was now shrouded in a thin brown patina, with only the areas remaining in direct contact with their opponents remaining relatively free of the concoction.

Through the miasma of pain clouding her head, Beckett sensed that not only was she nearing defeat, but would most likely incur an injury that would end her career as a cop, and perhaps leave her with some permanent disability. As the American woman neared unconsciousness, the Sicilian released her grip, dropped the seeming lifeless body into the dirt. She arose, flipped her victim's body over on her back, and surveyed the results of their intense combat with disdain. "Is this the most this fucking American bitch has to offer?" she muttered in Italian.

Lying near defeat in the dirt Kate had no idea what her tormentor was saying. But she could see her lips moving, the scorn on her face, and the barely concealed body language of a superior woman warrior that conveyed nothing but contempt for her hapless, prostrate victim. She could hear what her victorious adversary was saying: "You're wasting your time detective." And the haughty vision of Cole Maddox danced before her eyes; the sneer, the leering half smile, the sense of overwhelming physical power that had rendered her, Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, Badge Number 41319, helpless before his invincible power. Once again, she felt like a kitten being tossed, thrown around, beaten and destroyed by a ferocious bear.

Through the dirt, sweat, and blood obscuring her vision, she saw the Sicilian's right leg draw up to deliver another driving blow to her groin. Beckett rolled to her left, and her opponent's foot struck only a glancing blow on her buttock as she rolled clear. Yelling in frustration, the bouncer leaped on the American's back, as the American drew her powerful thighs in tight to her body under her upper torso. Zenobia sensed the traditional wrestling tactic, and feeling her adversary's body slowly rising beneath her all the while supporting her own weight, she sought a purchase in Beckett's short hair.

Now all those conditioning exercises and leg strength workouts paid off for the detective. Having regained the use of both hands and knees, and momentarily free of those pulverizing blows to her groin and kidneys, Beckett half rose bearing the weight of her adversary on her back, then quickly pulled her arms beneath her, dropped to her knees, thrust her lower back and buttocks as high as possible and threw Zenobia forward off her back and into the stone blocks that marked the outer perimeter of the arena floor.

The Sicilian only partially shielded her head as she struck one of the stones. Momentarily stunned, she was draped over the offending granite block with her back vulnerable. Spying the opportunity, Beckett quickly regained her feet and half-walked, half-limped over to her opponent. Thinking the bouncer might be feigning a greater injury than she had sustained to lure the American too close, the detective carefully raised her left leg and drove her foot, heel first, hard into her tormentor's kidneys, followed by two savage stomps to the nape of the Sicilian's neck.

As Zenobia writhed in pain, Beckett put one foot under her stomach and kicked her off the stone, rolling her over on her back on the arena floor. Moving towards the bouncer's head, the detective drove her left heel down on to her opponent's forehead, followed by three sharp blows to the groin area, hard on the Sicilian's pubic mound.

Not wanting to give the bouncer any respite to gather her senses, Beckett dropped down on her prostrate foe, straddled her stomach, and wedged her thighs tightly against her opponent's ribs. Zenobia attempted to rise, but a clubbing fist to her face knocked the stunned woman back into the dirt. Beckett gazed hungrily at the bouncer's cleavage, but shook such thoughts from her concentration, and as if in retribution for the allure of her opponent's breasts drove a fist hard into her right breast, followed immediately by another hard blow into the fleshy area beneath it.

Zenobia cried out in pain, sensing for the first time that she might actually lose this contest. The woman astride her chest was a relentless machine, striking repeatedly into her face and chest. She seemed almost beside herself in rage, almost demonic in her unceasing actions. When the bouncer managed to free one of her arms and partially cover her face, the American quickly rose and drove another foot into her groin. Half retching, her mouth now filled with her own blood and dirt from the arena floor, Zenobia rolled to her right and attempted to rise. The American assisted her in her efforts, gaining purchase in her breasts, and lifting the hapless Sicilian to her feet by them. As the bouncer attempted to relieve the painful grip on her breasts, the detective quickly released her grip and chopped down hard on both shoulders. Zenobia fell to her knees, and then doubled over when two savage kicks thundered into her abdomen and groin.

But Beckett was not done. When she had trained with Royce as a rookie policeman in the 12th Precinct's gym, her mentor had cautioned her that in closely fought hand-to-hand combat she could easily fall prey to what he termed "killing time," when her desire to incapacitate and destroy an opponent would overcome any rational thought as to what was required to simply immobilize and cuff the perpetrator. In New York City that could get a cop into big trouble with the lawyers and courts. But Melos was not the City, and Beckett realized she was in "killing time." So be it. Royce was long gone…and she had nearly died twice…fighting for her life against Maddox's rifle and fists and knees. And now this bitch was trying to kill her also. Beckett wanted to hurt her…really hurt her…for the four months of fear…four months of envisaging and hearing Cole Maddox taunting her as she lay sprawled, gasping for breath, a driving pain in her gut, on the roof of the Rosslyn Hotel.

"You're wasting your time detective…we know exactly who we're up against…" She could hear Maddox haughty voice as if he were here in the ampitheater with her now.

"East shit, asshole!" Beckett screamed and drew her opponent back on her feet only to slam her into a taller section of the perimeter stone wall. Close in body work on a heavy bag was one of the detective's favorite workouts, and so she reveled in delivering repeated hammering blows to the Sicilian's chest area, drawing pleasure from the feel of Zenobia's breasts flattening against her chest accompanied by choking cries of pain from her victim.

A feeble attempt by the Sicilian to kick up with her right leg into Beckett's groin was easily parried by the detective, who responded to the move by wrenching the leg up high, nearly lifting the Sicilian off the arena floor, and driving extended, rigid fingers hard into the bouncer's pubic mound. "You want to fight dirty cunt?" Beckett yelled. Well, she knew how to fight dirty with the best of them.

The ensuing shriek of pain from her opponent was accompanied by a desperate attempt to head but her tormentress, but instead served to only further enrage the American. Beckett wrenched up the leg even further and drove a forearm down hard across the lower thigh. The resulting sound and scream of pain told her she had likely dislocated the bouncer's knee, and through the blood, dirt, and sweat that encrusted her face Beckett smiled. "It was a good day to die."

With her opponent nearly unconscious and unable to do anything to protect her vulnerable body from the vicious onslaught of the New York detective, Beckett decided to take the risk and spun right behind Zenobia's back. Her hands move quickly up towards the Sicilian's thick arms, and with a grunt she maneuvered her hapless opponent into a perfect full nelson. The bouncer grimaced as her arms were forced outward, Beckett's arms snaking under her own arms and locking tightly behind her neck.

Beckett's flat belly started to twist and pulse as she flung her helpless opponent from side to side. The carefully honed muscles of her abdomen rippled, the smooth muscles of her thighs knotted and bulged as she lifted Zenobia off her feet, putting all her dead weight on a neck bent over at nearly right angles to the body below. Spittle foamed from the bouncer mouth as she bucked and twisted to escape the hold. But it was to no avail. The Sicilian was trapped in one of the classic wrestling holds that dated from ancient times, and had doubtlessly been performed by Greek wrestlers over the centuries in the same arena where the two women were currently engaged in mortal combat.

Beckett sensed that the bouncer's greater weight, even with all her strength conditioning, would soon wear her down, setting her up for a possible counterattack. She remembered Royce telling her to never take an opponent for granted; a wounded perp was more dangerous than an unharmed one. And this bitch was dangerous…no doubt about that…so the detective suddenly released the hapless Sicilian, who slumped to the arena floor. Beckett quickly dropped behind her and swung her right arm around the bouncer's neck and locked on to her own left bicep. A sharp choking sound emanated from the larger woman's mouth as the American applied the strangle hold with ruthless determination. "Royce, you were a good teacher" Beckett mumbled through the blood and dirt encasing her face. As she arched her back and spread out her long, sleek legs for additional leverage, she smiled: "Payback was indeed a bitch."

Both women twisted and squirmed, but the choke hold was beginning to have its effect on the Sicilian. The American's widespread legs prevented her opponent from rolling on her back in either direction, and the bouncer sensed it was increasingly hopeless for her to escape.

Beckett herself was in no rush to release the hold. She could sense the pain and fear in her opponent. She had been there…done that. The New York cop reveled in countering the straining muscles of her opponent. She was actually beginning to enjoy hurting this bitch!

Zenobia made a final effort at breaking the hold, heaving her body up and down, but the American was relentless in maintaining the hold unbroken. The larger woman slowly sank into a stupor, succumbing to a lack of air. When she sensed her opponent was unconscious, Beckett released the hold, and warily regained her feet, all the time watching to ensure that the bouncer was really out.

Raising her leg to deliver some final, humiliating blows to the Sicilian's abdomen and groin, the detective sensed movement above her and a restraining hand on her shoulder. Pausing, she looked up into the wizened features of Artimus, who was standing on the first level of the amphitheater seats. "Have you not had enough?" he asked. "It's over."

No damn it. She had not had enough. Her blood lust was up, it was "killing time," and Beckett wrenched away from his grasp, drawing herself up to renew the attack. But seeing the concern on Artimus's face, she paused. For what she wanted to do would probably get him in trouble with the local authorities, as the presence of a crippled or near dead female bouncer in the ampitheater would be difficult to explain. She owed him, and so she stopped, taking in deep breaths and shaking out her arms and legs; killing time was over.

Artimus had done right by her. The earlier pain and damage inflicted on her body by this Sicilian bitch who clearly had sought to destroy her had been exactly what she wanted…and had paid for. Zenobia was merely fulfilling her end of an unwritten contract. Her success was evident in the killing lust that had driven the detective to the extreme violence now evident on the arena floor. For Kate Beckett had been beaten, like before, in excruciating physical pain, like before. Once again she had been atop the wind swept Rosslyn Hotel, facing a seemingly invincible adversary. Once again she had been beaten, ravaged, near defeat…but this time the detective had come back. She had overcome her fear; she was no longer afraid. Near defeat, she had risen off the floor and fought back, to the point where she now was beyond feeling pain, only wanting to inflict it. At last, and once again, she was experiencing the thrill of victory in brutal hand-to-hand combat, well beyond the confines of the 12th Precinct gym and its protective rules and regulations. Here in the arena favored by the ancients, it had been much simpler: kill…or be killed.

"Son of a bitch," Beckett shouted, "I'm back."

With that recognition, and now somewhat remorseful, she moved toward the downed Sicilian bouncer who, misinterpreting her movements, looked up at her with terrified eyes. Artemis quickly stepped between victor and vanquished, interjecting a firm, "Enough. Leave her alone."

Beckett raised her arms. The gymnasia owner recoiled in fear, but the New York detective simply brought them down on both his shoulders. "You're right…it's over…at least here on Melos." Artimus smiled and moved to the edge of the arena, where he had secured a bucket of warm bucket and a large sponge.

Beckett followed, then stood still and erect as Artimus began to wipe her sweat-slick and bloodstained body clean of the accumulated filth of the morning's conflict. Pausing only briefly in his labors to admire the swell of her perfectly proportioned breasts still encased in the sports bra, he gently wiped down her long legs and scraped sweat caked dirt from the dark juncture of her hips and thighs. The bruising would take several days to heal, and the pain of the body blows she had suffered would only become more acute later in the day. But for now she had some flesh wounds that would have to be treated, some cuts on her face and a busted lip, but nothing requiring more intensive, modern treatment.

Kate shuttered and briefly trembled when he wiped down her groin area. Years ago the Greek gymnasia owner would have jumped at the chance to bed this American princess, but those days were long past. Now he could but admire her magnificently sculptured body as he diligently worked to cleanse it of the morning's labors.

When somewhat clean, Artimus motioned her to follow him up the ancient stone steps out of the Melos amphitheater. Gaining the top, Beckett followed him into the modern gymnasia building, where he directed her towards a nearby massage table. "Lay down," he directed, "and remove all your gear. You are hurt and I have some work to do. Mr. Castle will not want his woman returned damaged."

Kate smiled at the thought and remembered Castle's concern when he had seen up close the damage inflicted by Cole Maddox. It had taken almost a week for him to adjust to his lover's bruises and pains, though it didn't seem to effect his performance in bed, on his desk, kitchen table, or poolside in the Hamptons. "Oh, now we wouldn't want to make Mr. Castle angry," she replied and carefully removed her bra and running briefs. The pain in removing her bra in particular told her Artimus's concerns were justified. She had no concern on him seeing her nude. She had been too long in Greece to be concerned about such issues now. Guess the ancient Greeks had it right about nudity. She'd love to vacation here one day with Rick; he'd never want to leave!

So she stretched out to her fullest extent on the table, purring contently as Artimus worked strong fingers into her deltoids, biceps, trapeze and thigh and lower muscles. Strong, callused hands lathered with scented oil massaged her legs, groin, and breasts. He knew his job well, and Beckett reveled in the pleasure of warm flesh kneading her tired body.

After a delicious interval, a light tap on her shoulder told her to roll over and the gymnasia owner worked her neck, shoulders and back. Warm hands on her buttocks and gentle pressure spread her legs apart. Now moaning part in appreciation and part in lust, she felt the heat gathering in her core. She smiled at the thought of asking for additional "services" from this talented man, but then repressed the thought. She had already tempted the devil once this morning. Next time she might not come out ahead. So she turned her head to the side, muttered a grateful thank you, and drifted off into a healing slumber.

When awaked by the gentle prodding of Artimus she raised herself into a sitting position. Men were now filing into the gymnasia for their morning routines. Though completely nude, Beckett's body elicited little more than polite interest from the male athletes that were here at this early hour. Although many admired the woman whose incredibly long legs and beautifully proportioned breasts were more than enticing for those so sexually oriented, they all knew the rules of the gymnasia. In an area where ancient civilizations had trod for centuries, nudity had a different context than in today's world. So no one thought it unusual that a woman would be here at this early hour, one whose statuesque beauty was in keeping, in a modern context, with that of Venus de Melos whose image was considered the epitome of womanhood in the ancient world. Besides, many had seen Beckett in sports bra and briefs, running at dawn in the warm sands of the Aegean beaches, or working out on the heavy bag in the gym's strength and toning room.

Beckett was now used to being largely ignored, her actual identity and Nicki Heat celebrity unknown on this isolated island in the Greek world. Town gossip said she had come here to be healed and rehabilitate herself after a severe accident in the United States, and that same gossip said she was not to be approached or engaged in conversation. She might be some American gangster's moll ran the conventional wisdom. "Castle would love that!" she inwardly smiled.

Beckett lowered herself off the massage table, leaned on the table's edge, stretched her long legs out before her, and smiled gamely at her male companions. Now walking towards the locker room, she wished Castle were here to see her. "Not today boys," she muttered, "show's over," and politely waved to a few admirers; exit stage left.

Gazing down at the arena floor on the way to the locker room, she noted that Zenobia's body no longer lay forlornly in the pit. Artimus had clearly been busy while she slept, and no evidence of their brutal encounter remained for the men arriving at the gymnasia's regular opening hour to discern. The pit was swept clean, the dirt seemingly undisturbed since last night's duties by the owner.

Artimus appeared at the locker room entrance with a light body wrap to encase her from knee to shoulder. The appreciative detective smiled her thanks and quickly drew the wrap around her. "I'll go to my hotel room and change, and bring it back."

Artimus touched her arm. "Beckett, there is someone here to see you…a man."

Beckett stopped, eyes alight, pulse suddenly racing. "Castle?" Maybe his book tour had ended early...maybe he just couldn't stand to be away from her…maybe he just wanted to grasp her warm body, feel her breasts pressed up against his chest, pleasure her as only he could, feel her warm and soft lying next to him.

Artimus shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid not. That's not the name he gave me. He says you and he know one another, and that you both have a mutual friend. He is in the veranda outside my office. In this heat, I have set some refreshments on the table. You can have some privacy."

Beckett, struggling to conceal her disappointment, nodded her head in appreciation and quietly walked through the office, intent on seeing who it was before presenting herself. A momentary concern that it might be Cole Maddox or one of his henchmen was assuaged when she saw a familiar profile. Walking out into the bright sunlight she ducked under the umbrella where he sat sipping an ice-encrusted drink.

"Special Agent Danberg, what brings the Central Intelligence Agency to the island of Melos?"


	3. Chapter 3

The agent stood up and shook her hand. "Detective Beckett, you're looking well. And I see you've already been busy this morning."

Beckett blanched. Had he watched the contest in the ampitheater? Artemis hadn't said anything about a visitor. Maybe some money under the table had allowed an audience of one. Had the agent seen her in the killing time, a nearly uncontrollable, raging machine? Regardless, it was done, and she was moving on, and chose to ignore the remark. She took a seat, splayed her long legs out before her, and wrapped her hands around an ice cold drink. She hoped the pain from this morning's combat, particularly in her lower back muscles, was not visible on her face.

"Why are you here?"

"I came for the waters."

"Okay. Let's drop the 'Casablanca' stuff, okay? You didn't fly a third of the way around the world to give me your poor Bogart routine. What do you want? And by the way, I'm not a detective anymore. I quit."

"Oh, so many questions," Danberg replied. "So little time. The next boat leaves in about four hours."

"So? I'm not going anywhere with you."

"That remains to be seen detective. And by the way, Chief Gates has not accepted your resignation. You're still on the 12th's roster, just on extended 'no-pay' convalescent leave. And from the looks of things," he added, staring at her long tan legs, strong thighs and toned muscles glistening in the morning sun where the wrap had fallen to the side, "it appears you're well on the road to recovery."

Again, Beckett said nothing. She raised the iced drink to her lips. Her arm movement and the cold drink pressed against a lower lip that had been flattened in the fight with Zenobia again resulted in a slight grimace. Yeah, she sensed it was going to take a while to get over that Sicilian bitch.

Danberg, staring intently at her, noticed her pain. Beckett adjusted her wrap more tightly around her, then thought to hell with it, and let it fall further off her legs so everything mid-thigh and below was now bathed in the hot Mediterranean sunlight. She figured Danberg by now appreciated the fact that the wrap was the only thing she was wearing. But he was a gentlemen, at least during daytime, and while doubtlessly appreciating the view, would not say anything.

"Okay, enough with the small talk. My status with the NYPD is none of the Agency's business. I'm on vacation with no pay. So what?"

Danberg smiled, lowered his drink to the table, and leaned forward. "Two words, detective: Sophia Turner."

Beckett paused mid drink. "She's dead."

"That's what you thought. Hell, that's what we thought, but when we went to pick up the body, it was gone."

"But I saw her lifeless on the concrete floor."

"No. What you saw was an operative skilled in faking death. Apparently she had a Kevlar jacket on underneath her blouse. A head shot would have done her in. Unfortunately, the body shot was not enough."

"Okay, she's still alive. A KGB sleeper agent escaped the CIA's clutches. Tell me that hasn't happened before! So she's back in Moscow. Putin's back in power; they should both be happy with one another."

Danberg took another sip of his drink, and eased back into his chair. "That's the problem. She never went back. We checked with some of our, shall we say, close personal friends in the Kremlin. She had once been on their payroll, but went rogue shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall. She's been off the grid since you last saw her, face down, presumably dead. About a month ago we got a sniff on her in the Balkans...somewhere in the central Carpathian Mountains, imbedded with some Romani tribe. We call them gypsies."

"Okay, thanks for the geopolitical tour of eastern Europe. I'll update the Wikipedia entry on 'gypsies.' So, you've got a problem. I still don't see why you came all the way here to tell me this. What…did the Agency have some spare travel money and you always wanted to see the Greek isles. And by the way, I don't see those little ear pieces you people always wear. Must be tough, huh, vacationing on an island with no cell phones…no internet?"

"Ah detective…sparring with you...verbally...not physically (he half smiled and looked over towards the amphitheater) is so much fun. No wonder Castle finds you so…shall we say…interesting."

At the mention of her lover's name, Beckett started. "He knows you're here? He told you where I was?"

"No, absolutely not. It only took a couple of hours to find where you went. You know, the Agency can actually be pretty efficient when we want to, especially when the Director has personal interest in the case. And after 9/11 we've had a particularly good working relationship with the big international airlines. So no, Castle has no knowledge of my being here. He is in Berlin this week and thinks you're still…shall we say…healing? Besides, the Agency shares Sophia's estimation of your boyfriend: 'a reckless, immature, self-entered jackass.' We're not interested in Castle."

Beckett elected to let the cheap shot at Castle go unanswered; besides, Sophia knew Rick probably as well as she did, and had probably slept with him more times than her; in many respects she wasn't far off.

The detective noticed that Danberg referred to Castle as her "boyfriend." Undoubtedly, he knew they were lovers. Hell they probably had bugged his loft, surveilled his home in the Hamptons, and had cameras filming their every movement in the Paris hotel room. Continuing with her James Bondish thinking, the detective turned seductively in her chair, allowing her wrap to fall forward away from her breasts. If he were there, Castle would have loved the enticing, but "can't touch" allure of his lover. So close…and yet so far.

"Danberg, really, so Turner is alive. So what? Why do I care? Find her…and kill her…if that's what you want. Hell, you found me with no problem."

The CIA agent started to reply but Beckett cut him off. "Wait…I see…you know where she is…and you don't want to kill her. You want to recruit her…what…as a double, double agent. You people are incredible!"

Now it was Danberg's turn to interject. "Beckett, you're right…but only partially. We do have a vague idea where she is…we would like to talk with her…but don't have enough confidence that she'd be willing to sell out the other side. She's good…very good. We were fooled once…we don't intend to be fooled again."

Beckett was growing tired of the wordplay and swung her legs under her, away from Danberg's view. She rose half out of her chair. "I don't see how this involves me. I'm tired…I've had a busy morning (she half smiled at this), and I appreciate you explaining to me how my tax dollars are hard at work. Have a great vacation."

The CIA agent stood up. "Beckett, we need your help. Sit down…please?"

From the tone of his voice, the detective knew the conversation was about to take a more serious turn. The "cop" in her character was intrigued. She sat down. "Okay, talk."

Danberg, sitting back down, leaned forward. "Turner is alive, somewhere in the Balkans…the Carpathian Mountains, we believe. She's embedded herself in the nomadic Romi tribes, we call them gypsies, that still roam Eastern Europe irrespective of international boundaries or laws. We don't know what she is doing…and neither does Interpol or the Russians. But recalling our experience with her in Linchpin, we need to find out. And we've been exploring multiple venues to contact her…but with only limited success."

Beckett was now interested, but still clueless as to how she fit in to all of this.

Danberg read her mind, and after another sip from his drink, continued. "About three weeks ago we finally established contact with her, through an intermediary from one of the gypsy tribes on our payroll. This individual was unable to discern much of what she was up to, only that it involved people from some organization in the 'Stans. The 'Stans are…"

Beckett cut him off. "I know what the 'Stans are. What, you think cops are stupid…that we don't read…are only interested in our own precinct? Or is it that I'm a woman, and you big he-men in the Agency don't think we can handle the big picture, something beyond the Style section in the Washington Post?"

Beckett stopped. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. Go on…"

"I assure you," Danberg quickly replied, "We know your interests extend far beyond the confines of the NYPD. And as for what we think of women, remember Sophie Turner fooled us for more than a decade…made chumps out of a lot of well paid people, men and women, high up in the Agency. And we only broke the Linchpin case because of you, Detective Beckett. Whatever you may think, we do not underestimate the skill set of our female acquaintances in the intelligence business, friend or foe."

Admonished, Beckett eased back in her chair. "Okay, I was wrong. I'm just a little sensitive…perhaps 'little' is the wrong word, to working as long as I have in the testosterone laden environment of the 12th." She realized she had used present rather than past tense in referring to her job status, but let it slide. "So…sleeper agent Sophia Turner, no longer KGB, is now working for some shadowy organization in Kazakistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmen…or whatever. I still don't see where I come in to this."

Danberg leaned forward. "Simply this. She has asked for you."

For the first time in this conversation Beckett was genuinely surprised…and interested. "Me?"

"Yes. Our source got one clear message out to us. Turner wants to meet with you. About what we don't know. We've heard nothing since. Presumably our man has been killed or compromised. Knowing Turner, she probably made our agent, ensured that the single piece of information she wanted disclosed got out, and then eliminated him. She's good in that way. Very efficient."

"Okay…so you want me to become your new source…agent…or what…gun for hire? Why don't you just fly one of those drones you use in Southwest Asia over the Carpathians, locate the tribe she is imbedded in, and dispatch a couple of Hellfire missiles to deal with the situation. Quick and dirty…the American way."

"Ah, Detective Beckett, you're new to this business. That's the problem…quick and dirty is not the American way…and the Director will not authorize a missile strike that would kill a number of innocent people. Besides, we need actionable intelligence on Turner. What is she up to? Who is she working for? What long range planning is she engaged in…and where and what are her objectives? We need information…correction…make that knowledge...of Sophia Turner."

"And if I get the 'knowledge' you want…then what?"

"Then you are to terminate her…with extreme prejudice."

"What the fuck does that mean? Kill her? Murder her? Why don't you people talk in plain English?"

"Okay…fine…we want you to kill her. A clear shot to the head, a knife to the heart. We don't care. We want what she knows…and then we want her eliminated. We don't feel we have to tell you how to do your job. But you should know it has been authorized all the way to the top."

"My job…my job? What the hell makes you think I'm willing to do this? I'm a cop…not an assassin."

"Yes, we understand that. But we also know you realized the stakes involved in Linchpin, and willingly put yours, and your lover's, lives on the line for the good of the country. You're not a flag waving, slogan mouthing patriot Kate Beckett, but you know what's right and wrong…we've seen that in your police work…and we think, realizing the importance of what is at involved here, you'll volunteer. We do not need another Linchpin."

"Volunteer? You're shitting me, right? Leave a sun-drenched Greek island in the Mediterranean where the less I wear the better…to go in country in the Balkans where the fall snows have already started to fall. And as for Rick Castle…my 'lover' as you call him…I assure you he was 'all in' on Linchpin. He wanted it as much as I did." Beckett caught herself up…probably gave too much away on those last two sentences…but what the fuck…the CIA clearly knew of the relationship between her and the man whom had never been far from her thoughts her entire time on Menos. And she resented the idea that to the CIA he was merely her 'boy toy,' willing to do whatever she commanded. That was not the Rick Castle she knew…and loved.

Danberg waited until he thought she was done. The silence was deafening.

"Okay, noted. I'll amend the record as to Castle's participation in Linchpin. And as for being a 'volunteer?' Not exactly…Field Operative is the normal term for the kind of work we'd like you to do, and I can assure you that you will be well compensated. Probably more than you make in a year at the 12th."

Seeing the anger in Beckett's eyes on that one, he raised his hand in apology. "I know…cheap shot. Let me rephrase that to say we know you are 'between jobs' as they say, and some coin of the realm might come in useful at this time. We have taken the liberty of setting up an account for you in the Cayman Islands. If you agree to work for us, we will immediately credit this account with, shall we say, a substantial amount of money. You are free to draw on it at any time…we trust you…and if something should happen, we would see that any remaining balance was transferred to Mr. Castle's bank in New York City."

"Something should happen? What the hell does that mean?"

"Well Detective Beckett, Turner has already likely killed one of our agents. And you saw her in action during Linchpin. Remember the body count? Now she has asked for you, but we don't know why. There is always that chance…and you should know that if you are captured or killed, the Director will deny any knowledge of your actions."

"I see you like 60s era television Agent Danberg."

"Yeah, I know, it's a cliché…but in this case the statement of disavowal is applicable. Kate, I don't want to mislead you. This is a dangerous mission, and we don't fully know what we'll…correction…you'll be up against. I don't want you to enter into any agreement with us without understanding fully the risks involved. You will have no backup…no one to call for if you get into trouble…or over your head. We will issue you a small transponder to activate once you've located Turner. We'd like to send forces in for your extraction, if possible, but don't count on it. There is a lot of sensitivity in the Balkans right now about national sovereignty and international borders and airspace violations."

Beckett resented Danberg's use of "Kate." That form of address was for Castle, his mother and daughter, and her father, to use. But she appreciated the sincerity of his concern. Probably not a bad guy to know…particularly when he wasn't wearing a damn ear piece and dark sunglasses.

They both looked at one another without saying anything. Clearly the "wheels were turning" as far as Kate Beckett was concerned.

After several minutes, she cleared her throat. "Okay, I'll do it…under three conditions."

"And those are…?"

"First, in no way is Castle to be told of this mission, or where I am. Trust me, he will drop whatever he is doing and find me. You guys are good…but so is he…and he has the money to make it happen. So absolutely no word…okay?"

"Agreed."

"Second, I want it understood that I am not committed to killing Sophia Turner. Yes, if circumstances require it to save my life I will…you know my record, I have killed before, up close and personal…but I am not a contract killer, some Mafia hit man. If I can get the information you want, and see a way of bringing Turner out with me, I will take it. What you do with her after the extraction is your business. But you need to understand, I am not a murderer…and will not be a paid assassin doing the Agency's dirty work. 'Terminate with extreme prejudice'…what the fuck…you guys watch too many movies."

Danberg again nodded in agreement, not willing to admit those were almost exactly the Director's words. Sometimes Hollywood got it right!

"Third, and finally, I want my participation in this operation to be totally concealed, forever, from all who have no need to know. I'm talking about Castle of course, but also his family…my father…anyone and everyone working for and associated with the 12th Precinct and the NYPD. You're right…I may not be off the personnel roster at the 12th, but I'm a cop…not a spy or a secret agent. Being a cop is my life, and if I choose to end my career I want it to be my decision, not some well placed media leak to unnamed sources that gets me on the front page of New York Times…or some disclosure that turns up in a Bob Woodward book years from now."

"Understood…and agreed to. And Kate…I apologize for using your first name…but I do care that you both understand what you're getting into and the risks involved…I give you my personal assurance that the Agency will agree to all of your conditions. Some of us…perhaps not all…but some of us…still have personal principles and adhere to a code of conduct rarely found in government today."

Beckett nodded her assent…and understanding.

"Well, if we are done here, we have to make that afternoon boat back to the mainland. I need to get you to Rome for outfitting, then on a plane to Bucharest."

"Outfitting?"

"Well, Special Agent Beckett, your current attire, and I suspect most of what you brought with you in that overnight bag, won't do in the Balkans."

Again Beckett thought, how long has the CIA been tracking her? Had they gone through her luggage at the airport? Was Artemis on their payroll? And what of Zenobia? Had she been just a plant, someone to test Beckett to her limits, to see if she still had "it" physically, enough to be an agent…enough to kill? These questions spun around in her head…perhaps she didn't really want to know the answers.

"Okay. I'll get my things at the villa and meet you on the waterfront in a couple of hours."

"Agent Beckett, by your agreement with me, you're now a Field Operative of the Central Intelligence Agency, and I am your designated handler. I need to accompany you back to you villa."

"I thought you said you trusted me?"

"I do. But you know the Agency…protocol."

She sighed, "All right."

She pushed away from the table and started to stand.

"Oh, one more thing Kate…sorry…Special Agent Beckett." Danberg smiled, "That sounds good!" He reached below the table into his briefcase. "Now that you've agreed to our request, I have been instructed to give you this. It's from the FBI."

"What the hell is this. Kate Beckett appreciation week? First you…and now them. You'd think I was a national asset or something."

"Well that's one way of looking at it," replied Danberg. "Here, take this" he said giving her a small, heavy box wrapped in the kind of nondescript paper found in a UPS package store. "It's from an admirer. Go on…open it," he directed.

"What is it?" queried Beckett.

"I don't know. As you know, the FBI and CIA aren't always on the best of terms. Communication between both organizations oftentimes leaves something to be desired."

Beckett smiled. "Yeah, tell me about it. And we in the NYPD don't like either one of you...or those clowns in NSA either!" She realized for the first time she had used the word "we" in describing her and her, perhaps, former employer. A quick look at Danberg caught a half smile on his face. He would report to the Director that their "temporary" employee at least was now considering she had a future…if not perhaps with the CIA. That morning in the arena was just what she needed; good call.

For Beckett, her curiosity at the contents of the box peaking, she quickly tore off the shipping paper. A plain wooden box was revealed, wrapped with three plastic binding straps. Danberg produced a knife, and carefully severed the securing devices. Beckett opened the lid. Inside were two handguns laying in pre-formed plastic mounts, a Glock 19 with a half-dozen 15 round clips, and a smaller Glock 26 with a half-dozen 10 round clips. Their burnished Tennifer surfaces gleamed in the bright Mediterranean sun.

The detective carefully removed each one from its mount. Their smooth cool surfaces felt good in her hands…a natural fit for one who had made her living with …she stopped. She had made her living with them…but now…what? Ahead lay uncharted territory, and she realized that they were the only familiar things she would enter this new world with. Castle once joked about "a muse and his partner fighting crime." Now it was more like "a renegade cop for hire, and her guns, fighting…" Just what the hell was she fighting…and for whom?

She looked hesitantly at Danberg. "Having second thoughts?" he queried.

"No," she replied, perhaps too quickly. He sensed her unease.

"There is a note inside," he added.

Beckett put both handguns on the table and lifted up the pre-formed gun mounts. She removed a simple, plain note card, that in cursive writing read, "Kate, it's your collar. Jordan"


	4. Chapter 4

IV

Bumping and jarring its way over frozen roads, slewing through great cuttings of hardened snowdrift, the gypsy caravan slowly wound its way down the wind scoured hill overlooking the Siret River flood plain. As the heavily laden wagons approached a forlorn ferry building, looming dark and forbidding through blustery snow squalls, Kate Beckett pulled back the muslin windscreen and dropped lightly into the knee-deep snow. Gathering her heavy woolen coat tightly around her with a wide leather belt, she checked the accessibility of her Glock 19 deep in the outer right pocket, along with an eight-inch folding stiletto she had bought in Rome for "up close and personal work". How Agent Danberg had smiled when she said that!

In the 12th Precinct they would have called this "Indian Country," in recognition of the border being little more than a stone's throw away, an area rife with competing territorial claims, feuding clans, and a government that only periodically made its authority known over the indigenous peoples of the region. As she half-slid, half-scrambled down a rock-strewn uneven track towards the small, squat building built close to the riverbank, she kept a careful eye on her surroundings. Rumors picked up in the gypsy campsite the previous night indicated "she" was here, but offered little more information. Beckett remembered the transponder in her left boot, but decided to wait until positive identification was made. You'd only get one chance to locate Sophia Turner…and you'd better be right.

Nine days ago she had been fit, sun bronzed, and living the good life on the island of Melos, ready to resume her job as a NYPD detective, her physical confidence restored through a brutal encounter in an ancient Greek amphitheater. Now she was half frozen in the remote fastness of the Central Carpathian Mountains, somewhere in northeastern Romania west of the Moldovan border, looking for someone judged to be an enemy of the State. Just why was unclear, as was just how Beckett was…maybe…to execute what was essentially a kill order on Sophia Turner.

Castle would have loved this, she was certain. Rouge cops performing as executioners for a shady security agency halfway around the world from the City. She could see him, sitting in his underwear before his desk, banging away on the keys of his laptop: "Nikki Heat cursed the cold and the wind as she wound her way towards…"

"Damn it…focus Beckett," she muttered, amused that it was normally her that would be admonishing Castle when he was on one of his wild mob, extraterrestrial beings, zombies, or CIA theories to stay focused on the crime at hand. Now hers was the mind that was wandering.

Funny, this wasn't one of Castle's outlandish story lines anymore. She was actually in the pay of the CIA…and on her way, perhaps, to a murder…and she would be the murderer. The "irony," another favorite Castle word, was not lost on her as she approached a door barely visible in the swirling snow.

Making her way to the heavily barred door, she first banged her fists, then the butt of her Glock, to announce her presence over the howling wind roaring down the Siret River flood plain. Finally, the heavy bar rotated upward, the door opened a crack, and a guttural voice shouted against the noise of the storm, "What do you want?" Then seeing it was a woman, rather than the relief watch requesting entrance, the door was quickly thrown open wider and Beckett crossed the threshold into the hovel that passed for border security in this part of the Balkans.

The stench of unwashed bodies, half-cooked food, and thick smoke emanating from a poorly tended fire was nearly overpowering as the freshly minted CIA special agent peered through the dimly lit interior, looking for the Watch Captain. One particularly burly, seemingly drunk gypsy stood up and approached her, repeating the doorkeeper's question, "What do you want, bitch?"

Without waiting for a reply he turned to his three companions gathered around the gaming table. "Look what they sent us on this cold winter night. And unlike the normal cunts we get up her, this one actually looks good. Nice of the boss, isn't it," he chortled. Half-drunken, lusty laughter emanated from the group, but as his hand groped towards Beckett's face, a quick right forearm to the chest sent him stumbling back towards his companion.

"You stupid ass! Get your hands off me! I'm not one of your camp followers, or some wench willing to fuck for money. I have been told you are holding an American woman as a prisoner. I have your Chief's permission to question her…and use any methods I want in the interrogation."

Well, that wasn't quite true. Yes, the chief of this gypsy caravan had been well paid by the CIA to escort Beckett into the Central Carpathian Mountains. With enough money, liquor, and pornographic DVDs his support had been grudgingly given. Still her wagon was the slowest and filthiest in the bunch, always positioned at the rear of the caravan, rolling through piles of horseshit left by the teams in front. And the women all resented her; her looks, her coat, the way she carried herself amidst the others. Part envious, part intrigued, they kept their distance at the direction of the Chief. And as for the men, they'd do her in a minute, and the detective was always on her guard. She once had joked to Castle in her apartment, the one that had been burned up, that she slept with a gun. That was humorous…but here in the Balkans, rife with white slave rings in addition to smuggled guns, liquor, and drugs, a gun for protection, particularly for a foreign woman, was a necessity.

The Glock 19 and several magazines had been removed from the left inner pocket of her great coat her first night in camp. The smaller 23 remained sealed in the right inner pocket. The CIA outfitters in Rome had done a great job assembling her wardrobe on short notice; the guns were hardly discernible in the folds and thickness of the coat. And she had always loved Italian fashion, never so more than now. And these boots! Yeah, the heels were virtually non-existent, unlike her normal footwear in the 12th, but they were certainly appropriate for the terrain and climate, and looked quite fashionable outside the skintight jeans that hugged her long legs.

Having been amidst the gypsy caravan for three days, she wasn't sure which was more dangerous. The leering looks of the men who wanted to fuck her, or the envious glares of the women who wanted to scratch her eyes out and then strip her naked for her clothes. And these were the "friendly" contacts the CIA had in the Romani people. "They were sons-of-bitches, but they were our sons-of-bitches," Beckett rationalized.

Waiting in this shit hole for the Watch Captain to make up his mind as to what to do, she thought back longingly to her time in Melos: the heat, running along the sparkling Aegean beaches at sunrise, the thrill of victory in the arena. But…but…she was now back to being, what did John Candy say in "Stripes," a "lean, mean fightin' machine" and she had a bank balance in the Caymans that would make even Castle stand up and take notice. And thinking of Castle, where was he? Prague, Warsaw…somewhere in Eastern Europe, hopefully far away from this hapless caravan of filth and lust.

Beckett snapped back to the present as the Watch Captain, more careful this time to not get too close to her, replied, "Very well, you're welcome to that cunt…actually killed one of my guards on the road from Iasi last week. Watch her…even shackled she's dangerous…hamstrung two of my watch section yesterday."

Beckett wondered how they had gotten that close to Sophia to be injured, but figured she probably didn't want to know the answer. Instead, she removed her outer coat, but carefully slipped her stiletto into her right jean pocket. But she didn't have to worry about the watch section seeing the knife. Gathered around the gaming table in a game of dice overladen with copious amounts of alcohol they were focused on her close fitting sweater that did little to hide her sensuous curves and taunt breasts way up firm and high. And those long, long legs that seemed to go on forever. You didn't see legs like that on most Balkan women. Short and squat, that was more the norm around here. "Men!"…Beckett inwardly smiled, "What was that Castle use to say about boobs and Santa Claus?"

The cold butt of the Glock 19 in her right hand brought everyone back to reality. The watch section, once fixated on what it would be like to bed this American beauty, recognized the import of the gun. If there was one thing the Romani men appreciated as well as a beautiful woman, it was a handgun in the hands of someone who clearly knew how to use it. Any thoughts of overpowering this woman for a quick romp in the back room were quickly abandoned. "Well maybe later, but not right now," was the consensus of male opinion.

The Watch Captain, raising his game to reflect his responsibilities, gave Beckett the once over. He concluded from her looks and the strength of her arms and legs, evident even with outer garments on, that she could either beat…or fuck…the information she was seeking out of the woman in the next room. He did not care which method she chose. And then when she was done, his watch section could have their way, again, with the prisoner.

Beckett nodded in acknowledgement of the Watch Captain's caution regarding the prisoner. "I know. I've dealt with her before, replied the detective, "But I don't intend on killing her. We want her alive."

"Sorry. I didn't know that," replied the Watch Captain, missing the implication of the word "we," but thinking, "Yeah, right. You think we're going to give up such a delicious piece of ass to you. This is a gypsy camp, not a Hollywood movie set. The old rules still apply."

But he stopped there, thinking it best to maintain reasonably good relations with this bitch. She had probably shared the Chief's bed on the way into the mountains, and a misplaced word or gesture towards her might place at risk his own status within the tribe. "The Chief is so busy he doesn't have time to tell us much. Anyway, have a good time!" he grinned mischievously, "and if you need any help just call out. That cunt knows well the power and glory of the Romani people!" he slurred, grabbing provocatively at his crotch with both hands.

Beckett blanched and turned away, heading towards what apparently was some manner of cellblock. The idea of Sophia Turner, or any woman for that matter, being routinely raped or molested by these pigs turned her stomach. Homicides with an underlying motive of illicit sex were always those she most disliked working in the 12th, and she felt nothing but contempt and visceral hatred for these pigs laughing and joking like it was a holiday outing in Central Park.

But she was not in the 12th, she was on a special op for the CIA, and the job came first. She concealed her sentiments from the Key Man as he unlocked the outer cell door.

"Now you girls just have a good time in there…and save some for us!" he grinned, licking his wine stained lips as he slammed the door shut behind her. Beckett swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat, stood still while her eyes adjusted to the gloom of a cell dimly lit by two sputtering torches. She eased off the safety on the Glock.

A brief stirring to her right brought her into a firing stance. But a prolonged silence followed by a low moan eased her concern and she walked slowly towards the approximate location of the sound. Flickering torchlight finally revealed someone chained up to the damp, moss-encrusted wall. Moving closer, the source appeared to be upright, shrouded in a heavy, vulgar black leather mask, shackled to iron rings on the floor and overhead. Beckett could make out a slender body slowly swaying back and forth. And from beneath the mask, long, almost mahogany colored hair tumbled forth: Sophia Turner!

Beckett put the Glock back on "safe," returned it to her greatcoat and extracted the stiletto, flipping open the blade. Satisfied this was the object of her mission, she slipped the transponder from her left boot. Pushing down on the top, a brief green light indicated its activation. The detective smiled, recalling Castle pushing in the "Panic" app on the cellphone that Sophia had given him, before both Beckett and Castle had been locked in the trunk of an automobile in long term parking at JFK. The detective had derided him at the time for seeking help from his "girlfriend." Now in an ironic twist ("irony" again, one of Castle's favorite words), a transponder, another kind of "Panic" button, had been activated to extract one, if not two of Castle's lovers, past and present, from the remote fastness of the Carpathian Mountains.

Beckett moved quietly in front of the prisoner, careful not to disturb the heavy chains lying coiled at her feet. From the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the former KGB sleeper agent appeared asleep. As Beckett closed her nemesis, it was apparent that she was nearly naked. Sagging in her restraints, seemingly unconscious in a filthy dungeon, the detective was moved by the portrait before her: long sinewy legs, lithe thighs, hard flanks, flat taught stomach and small, pert breasts, nipples stiff in the cold. No wonder Castle had slept with her! You wouldn't find a body like this anywhere north of the fleshpots in Bucharest. She appeared to be wearing brief shorts and an even briefer halter top that barely covered the ends of her breasts, garb hardly suitable for a damp, cold confinement, but more than suitable for men not much better than animals. Long, narrow bruises visible above her groin and on her thighs and upper arms gave evidence of having been repeatedly beaten by truncheons wielded by her guards.

"May God have mercy on their souls if she ever gets loose," Beckett thought, "for she will surely have none." A wry grin came to the detective's face as she envisioned Sophia Turner forcing her captors to kneel and beg forgiveness before she blew their brains out with an efficient, single shot, execution style, to the back of the head. And Beckett, CIA agent or not, would stand aside, only ensuring she had enough ammunition to finish the job.

As she drew closer to the manacled woman, and seeing further damage across her breasts inflicted by the guards, Beckett reached forward and gently caressed the wounded area. Sophia's eyes few open, an instant fear of more inflicted pain washing across her face. Slowly as she focused in the poor light on who was standing before her, a faint nod of acknowledgement was discernible beneath the embossed leather restraints of her helmet.

"Why Detective Beckett…Kate…isn't it? How good of you to come and see me. Her voice barely above a whisper, she added, "Would you be a dear and fetch me some water…please?"

Beckett nodded her assent, turned, and folding the stiletto back into its handle, walked back to the narrow arch leading from the dungeon. "Guards!" she shouted. Their dice game rudely interrupted, the Key Man sauntered over.

"What do you want now, bitch?"

"Water…for me…I am thirsty."

"Get it yourself," he muttered and lifted the iron bar across the door.

Beckett walked out, went over to a bucket, and ladled out a full amount. Placing it to her lips, she walked slowly back into Sophia's cell as the dice game resumed.

"Sophia…careful…" she whispered as she slowly brought the ladle up to the prisoner's lips, pushing back and finally removing the helmet so the renegade spy could drink. The blood caked on her lips slowly dissolved into the water as Sophia gulped down as much as she could manage. An equal amount spilled down her throat, between her breasts, and down her torso. Scarcely constrained trembling replaced an initial shudder as the liquid coursed down her battered body, the wetness accentuating the cold and dampness of her riverside imprisonment.

The ladle was emptied before Sophia was sated, but the detective refrained from getting more for fear of alerting the guards that their prisoner had regained consciousness. Quietly putting the implement on the ground she gently felt the prisoner's sides, her arms, and the bruised areas above and on her breasts. There were deep cuts and bleeding, but no broken bones or contusions that would seriously impede her mobility. Beckett sighed in relief…but Sophia immediately understood the reason for her concern.

"Want to ensure I'm not too damaged…right?" Sophia hissed. She tried to raise her leg to knee the detective, but the weight and length of chain stopped her thigh half way to its target. She simply didn't have the strength.

Beckett took a step back, withdrew the stiletto from her pocket, and flipped open the blade. Even in chains and manacles this she-bitch was dangerous, as the body count during the Linchpin op had shown. The detective had to remind herself that as helpless as Sophia Turner now looked, she had killed Blakely, McGrath, Gage, and had been moments from executing both her and Castle before the timely return of Agent Danberg.

"Now Kate, no need for weapons. You don't have to be concerned. I cannot hurt you…at least not now. My 'friends' from the gypsy camp have seen to that. And honey, watch them. They don't really care which side you are on…or what they have been paid to do. A beautiful American woman…and yes I include me in that group as well as you…to them we're just delicious pussy offered up by the Gods for their own satisfaction. Watch them Kate, they're dangerous. You don't think I volunteered to get like this, do you?"

Beckett remained silent. Let her go on. Maybe some of the information the detective was looking for would come out in the one-way dialogue.

"Tell me Kate, and I feel we are old friends, having shared a lot together…including, what did the book reviewers call him, the 'ruggedly handsome Rick Castle'…have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be trussed up, nearly naked, in front of a bunch of beasts? How it would feel to have you private parts violated, filthy fingers and equally filthy cocks thrust inside of you, your upper body torn at and beaten at the same time? How it would feel to be humiliated and ridiculed in front of a bunch of people you thought were your friends? Kate, I've had better times."

Beckett suppressed a sympathetic nod. Remember, she reminded herself; this is a dangerous killer, one who attempted to bring down the entire economy and government of the United States. But still…

Turner sensed what she was thinking. "I know, you're standing there thinking, so what, this bitch is an enemy of the State, and I've been sent to kill her. Right? Honey, man up! If you're going to get into this business you have to put personal sentiments and sympathies aside. This is a dirty business…you have neither friends nor enemies…only your own interests to watch out for…to take care of."

"I'll guess you've been told to get as much information about what I'm up to as possible, and when satisfied, kill me…what's that sterile, 'washing our hands like Pontius Pilate before the crucifixion' phrase they use: 'Terminate…with extreme prejudice?' Ah, I can see from the look on your face that I'm right. So...just how much different are you from me? You are, as I have been, a Terminator. Now don't look so distraught! If you're going to play in this game of nations, you've got to better disguise your emotions. Hey…look at me and Castle. I slept with him for almost a year…furnished all the context he need for his Clara Strike character…then broke it off. He had what he wanted, and thanks to his father, so did I. We were done…though I do admit, Castle in bed was something worth keeping…but then you already know that, right?"

At the thought of Castle, try as she might, Beckett failed to suppress a faint smile. Turner didn't miss it.

"There, see, I'm not all bad. And Kate, I promise that if you can get me out of these chains, and give me that knife…what is it?…a stiletto you're carrying…you didn't think I saw it?...I'll kill these guards with my bare hands. And when I'm done, I'll give you that chance you've been waiting for. We can fight to the death…no knives, no guns…just you and me…one on one…and if you win…mission accomplished…an extraction…and the grateful thanks of your nation. Hell, they might even put your name up in that secret hall in Langley they reserve for covert operatives. And if I win? They'll put a gravestone up next to your mother's, and Castle will author the sentiment: 'Katherine Beckett, Beloved Daughter, She Died as She Lived, in Service.' Nice isn't it. That's what he wrote for my better half, Clara Strike."

Beckett moved closer, but remained watchful. Regardless of her current situation, the detective realized this woman was still dangerous, but she had also discerned the truth of her presence here. No use continuing the charade.

"Well, I can see you are as good…or should I say 'bad'… as they say. Yes, I was sent here to find you, but then remember, you asked for me. I'm supposed to determine what it is you are up to, kill you, and then return with the information. But I told the Agency…you know, the agent you betrayed, Martin Danberg, that I was not an assassin…a murderer. If I could I would extract you, and turn you over to them. If you tell me what I need to know, I will do everything in my power to get you out of this hellhole. But Turner, I warn you. You are a murderess, and to boot, someone who has sold their country out. As you told Castle and me before you would have killed us, the United States never was your country…and despite you fluency in the language, I don't think Russia was either. Well, America is my country, and while I might just be a NYPD cop, not a secret agent by trade, I assure you, I will execute the mission they have sent me on, and if need be you. Yes, I have been well paid to kill you, but it is a story for which the ending has yet to be written. So it's your choice, dead…or alive. I don't really care. I consider you a fucking traitor…"

"A story for which the ending has yet to be written. God, I love it Kate. You're fucking him…and now you're talking like him. I bet your daddy is so proud of you!"

"You fucking cunt…don't even bring my father into this" Beckett yelled, and drawing back, delivered a slashing kick to Turner's left side above the waist line of her shorts.

A bitter scream of anger and pain punctuated the damp atmosphere of the dungeon as in response Turner vainly swung her fists at Beckett's face. "Bitch," she screamed, "I would tear your throat out if I could reach you." She screamed again, and began a loud, painful rant, punctuated by the noise of her chains rising and falling. The resultant laughter in the gaming room as the guards paused to imagine what Beckett was doing to their prisoner told Turner the ruse had worked. Now gesturing with her head, she whispered, "Quick, get me another ladle of water." Sensing Beckett's reluctance to play her game, she added, "Come on, you owe me. After all, I was the one that told Maddox not to kill you. Why do you think he just left you hanging on that wall?"


	5. Chapter 5

The detective started back, as if one of Turner's fists had actually struck her. "What?"

Sophia just looked at her and motioned with her arm raised, "Go!"

Beckett's mind was spinning. What the fuck? Maddox…Turner…what's the connection? The CIA mission suddenly was no longer top priority. And was all this somehow connected to her mother's murder? Now the "detect" in detective was glowing red hot in Beckett's mind. And realizing she would never get any answers without Sophia's cooperation, she nodded her head in agreement, turned, and walked back to the door, lifting the heavy iron bar.

Walking through the narrow archway, she returned to the bucket of water and ladled out another portion. "I shouldn't be long boys," she waved, confident that in their alcohol befuddled minds even if they understood English, they couldn't discern what she was saying. But what they did understand was the prisoner's screaming and the pleasure evident on Beckett's face. She was having fun. Great…it would be their turn again soon enough.

Back inside the cell again, she walked over to Turner and proffered the ladle, taking care to remain outside the range of those manacled arms and legs. Trust but verify, a suitable strategy for nuclear weapons and when it came to dealing with Sophia Turner.

Turner finished drinking, this time a bit more slowly, and returned the ladle. "Taste good my love," Sophia cooed. "You know, I don't need you to like me Kate. Indeed, for what I am, I welcome your hatred. And this is not about Rick. Both of us are far above catfighting over one whose bed we have both shared. But Kate, I do want you to respect me…and know why I am like I am.

Beckett said nothing, but she was now more curious than ever. What was Turner so anxious to convey to her? What deep secret seemed to both motivate and torment this woman…this beautiful woman, Beckett had to admit, who seemed like a person without a country. What drove her to do what she did? Was there an explanation? The detective moved closer, but carefully, still not wanting to be within range of those arms and legs. A caged animal…

"I knew…I knew you couldn't resist. Maddox…Cole Maddox. Whatever deal you made with the CIA…whatever mission you signed up for…that's not the goal anymore. You want to know…indeed you are desperate to know…the relationship between Cole Maddox and…well, shall we say 'other things.'"

"And why should I believe you. You fooled the CIA for more than a decade…and Rick…who knows how long you strung him along?"

"You'll want to believe me Kate…how I like the sound of that name. So lyrical…just a single syllable...so laden with sexual overtones. Tell me bitch, does Rick yell 'Kate' or 'Katie' when he comes."

Beckett couldn't resist. Quickly stepping forward, she savagely backhanded the shackled woman in the mouth. The resonance of flesh striking flesh, followed by Turner's deep moan, resonated throughout the cell. Outside, the guards laughed again at the sound amidst their drinking and gaming.

The blood now flowed freely from Tuner's nose. Licking her lips, her tongue flecked in blood giving them a darker tint, Sophie looked at her. "Thank you Detective Beckett…or should I say Special Agent Beckett. Whatever…you…like me…are still Rick Castle's whore."

Beckett screamed in defiance and slapped her again. A fine spray of blood and spittle coated her hand and Turner's forehead. A right fist to the KGB agent's stomach sank deep into her abdominals. Rendered nearly unconscious, Sophia slumped against the dank prison wall, remaining erect only due to the presence of her chains holding her up.

Beckett shrank back, embarrassed at her loss of self-control, aware of how far removed she had become from the discipline and procedures of the 12th's interrogation room. She turned to go. "Enough. I'll leave you to them."

"Kate, no, don't go…at least not yet," implored Turner, rising up to take the weight off her extended arms. "We need to talk. I want you to know the truth. Whatever else you think of me, and I of you, I want you to at least know, in life or death, the truth."

As Beckett opened her mouth to reply, Turner interjected. "And don't tell me you don't want me…yearn for me. Someone to match your drive…your stamina. You're just like me, Kate. I already told you when we were at the CIA station. I was talking to Castle, but I watched you. Yeah, you were jealous that I had once been his girl friend, slept with him, but there was much more. You wear your emotions on your face; if you were on television the audience would love watching your facial expressions. I watch…and I do. When I told Castle that he always needed to know the story, and that if something didn't add up he just wouldn't let go, you knew I was really talking about you. I watched your eyes; you got the message. Yeah, I brought Castle inside the loop, but by bringing him in, I brought you in. Yes, I had to protect the op, but from you, not him."

"Kate, you and me are much alike…and that's why I asked for you to come to me. No, I didn't expect you'd find me like this, but I wanted to talk with you…explain some things to you…and…recruit you. Do you know how dangerous a beautiful woman with brains can be in this world? Why do you think I instructed Maddox to let you live? I'd tumbled with him enough in physical training before to know you never stood a chance against him. Hell, I didn't do much better than you, and I was in the gym, not on a rooftop. I knew that if he didn't kill you, but taunted you, told you were way in over your head, that the issue was much bigger than you, that you wouldn't stop. You couldn't stop. It's not in you DNA. And sometime, eventually, we would meet again. Yes, he is not much more than a thug…but a smart one at that…and he takes direction well. So he beat the shit out of you…but only went as far as instructed. He's very reliable in that sort of way and has proven very useful over the years to us. But Kate, let me assure you, with those long legs you would be much more valuable to us. Never underestimate the power of the female body."

"And why should I believe you," retorted Beckett, hoping the Extraction Team got here soon. This was rapidly going far beyond what she, and she suspected Agent Danberg, thought was going on with Sophia Turner. "And who the hell is 'us'?"

"Why should you believe me? Because Kate, you've known for a long time this was far bigger than you originally imagined when you began looking into your mother's death as a rookie cop. Hell, even Castle told you that, as did Chief Montgomery. And what have some of your informants called it?...the Dragon? Not bad…not bad…and we were once referred to as the Black Dragon Society, but that was long before either you or I were born."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Beckett was really interested now…and wished she could take notes. Turner seemed willing to run on so let her. As she had learned from years on the force, "you talk to people long enough and something shakes out." Well, Sophia Turner was "shaking out" for whatever reason.

Again though, it was as if Turner could read her mind. "So why am I telling you all this, you're thinking. Well…honey, I want you to join us. Let bygones be bygones. The people I work for…the 'us' you asked about. We now call ourselves the 'Order of the Si-Fan,' and we are actively seeking good people…young people…Western people…and most particularly…women. Women like you, Kate Beckett: ruthless, determined, goal-oriented, and beautiful."

"Remember when Bond gets the drop on Strangeways in 'Doctor No,' and after advising him that he knew his Smith & Wesson was out of bullets…'you've had your six'…coldly kills him? That was Bond at his most ruthless…and that's me…and I believe…that's you. We watched you in the arena in Melos. You damn near killed that bar bitch. She pushed you to the limit…and you lost it. Not in a stupid, reckless manner. But you were beside yourself in rage and anger and…Kate Beckett…you were one mean mother fucker…a ruthless killing machine…and that's what we want. There are special places in our organization for people like you…like me…and...Cole Maddox. Still, we have nice legs and tits…and he doesn't. To repeat, never underestimate the value of the female body…hell…look what we've done to Castle!"

It was coming almost too fast for Beckett to comprehend: Dragons, Si-Fan, Doctor No?...and how the hell did Turner know of her morning in the arena at Melos? That was little more than a week ago. How did she find out? From Artemis…not hardly. Danberg…son of a bitch!

"Do you mean that Danberg…"

Turner cut her off. "You've got a lot to learn about this business. Let me guess. Danberg was sent especially from Langley to find you…and only he and the Director were involved in the tasking order. Trust me, that's the way they work. And they set up some sort of physical test to see if you could pass…you know…beat the snot out of some bouncer bitch…and when they were satisfied with your performance they told you about me."

Beckett again was amazed at Turner's knowledge of what had happened. It was almost as if she had been in on the op planning.

"So Linchpin…were they all in on it also?"

"Well, that one kind of got away from us, in no small part due to you and your trusty sidekick, Rick Castle. But let's just say that Agent Danberg is a crack shot, and knew just where to shoot me in that Kevlar body armor to ensure my body would react as if it had genuinely been shot…but within minutes I'd be able to get up and extricate myself. Cracked a rib on that one…but no permanent damage. It's a skill Kate…you need to learn it."

"So what's this all about. Dragons and…what did you call it…Si Fan?"

"Honey, it's a long story and I don't think our mutual friends are going to hold off long enough for me to tell you everything. But when you get back to the City, assuming you do, Google 'Si-Fan' and see what comes up. Yeah, you'll see a lot of comic book crap, but look carefully at what Sax Rhomer was writing about in the second and third decades of the last century. He was good…an early 20th century Rick Castle…and he did exactly what he was asked to do. Read about FuManchu, a fictional creation of his, that served to shroud our organization in the unbelievable fiction of pulp novels and Hollywood pictures. And then came Ian Fleming and Doctor No, another Chinaman. All that, shall we say, publicity in the public forum, made it hard for international law enforcement agencies to take us seriously, which they might have had someone taken a careful look at what was happening around the globe. China, Egypt, Haiti, Peru, even England and the United States, we've been there. Now we're working in those disaffected states that were spun off from the Soviet Empire, wedged between the remote fastness of Central Asia and Mother Russia. But then it really doesn't matter where the Council of the Seven are headquartered. As you can see, we can even operate out of Langley."

"Okay, I'll brush up on my 'grassy knoll theory of world history' when I get back to the City," Beckett rejoined. "But I still don't see what this is all about…and why you'd think I'd be interested in becoming a member of whatever the hell this organization is about. And just what is it about?"

"Okay, fair enough. And I'll make this quick…the boys in the back room are getting restless. Think back to the Cold War…I miss that kind of action…I miss that clarity. With the fall of the Soviet Empire my life appeared empty, devoid of purpose until they contacted me. We worked on Linchpin for years; I was lead point in the Agency. Remember I told you and Rick about it in the station: Have something tragic happen to a leading Chinese leader, have Beijing blame Washington, and have linkages directly implicating the CIA. The ensuing debt and economic problems would hamstring, if not topple, the world's two largest economies."

"Kate, it's no longer about tanks, and planes, warships and missiles. Instead, it's simple economics. Today it's oil. In 10 or 15 years: food, water, plutonium, rare metals. Maybe even sooner. What do you think the people are going to want their governments to do then? Are you going to wait and ask them when they're running out; ask them when their engines stop. Ask them when people who have never known hunger start going hungry. You know something. The people won't ask their governments if it's legal...they won't care. They'll just want them to get it for them. And Kate, the Si-Fan will have what they want…and the price will be steep. As I told you and Rick, 'there are certain parties who will pay anything to reshape the world.' That's us…or as Bond told Doctor No, 'Same old dream…world domination.'"

"And the CIA…they're in on this."

"Well, let's just say there is one United States government…and then there is another. Most of the time their actions are complementary, but sometimes…"

"And Rick…?"

"Nope, just an innocent dupe…though a great lay, don't you agree? Bedding him was what I filed under the descriptor 'Job Satisfaction.' We needed his father for an initial entry. It worked, and Rick was cast free to start his budding literary career…a modern day Sax Rhomer or Ian Fleming."

"I don't believe…"

"I'm not asking you to believe. You go back to the City, to the 12th, to your lover. And then you try and tell Langley what I've just told you. How long do you think you'll last? You'll be walking along the street one day…or on a case with people you have known for years. Someone you know or trust will pull up alongside you and ask you to get in the car. You'll smile…oblige…and…well at least it will be a financial windfall for Castle, though he might not be in the mood to enjoy it. It took him quite a while to get over me."

As Beckett opened her mouth to reply, Turner cut her off. "Kate, you may not want to admit…but you secretly know I'm telling the truth. You sense that, if you sit back and put it on one of your murder boards, all the pieces of the puzzle will fall into place. All except one…the murder of your mother. I'll keep that piece to myself. That's my high card…and the reason you're going to help me get out of here. You've already killed one person who could have told you about your mother's role. Are you going to let that happen again? Kate, your new mission, should you decide to accept it…don't you just love those old TV lines?...is to keep me alive!"

"And one more thing Kate, just between you and me…and you know I'm telling the truth on this also. You want me…yearn for me…someone to match you strength for strength…and fulfill your innermost desire. What you want…what you need…are strong women to compete against…people like Jordan Shaw…and like me. Jordan incidentally, has no knowledge of any of this. I'm hoping if you come our way we can use you to recruit her; we could use a good operative in the FBI, and I think you'll agree, she is good."

"But getting back to our, shall I say, special relationship. I saw the way you looked at me when you came in here initially. The compassion on your face when you saw me, trussed up, raped and beaten by these animals, warmed my heart."

Beckett lift her hand in futile protest. Turner shook her head "No, don't bullshit me!".

"Kate, you want me…admit it. You want to feel me in your strong loving arms…to have me suckle those full breasts of yours, to feel me between your legs, our clits rubbing together. Fur on fur, me inside of you as you have been taken so many times…only to be disappointed when they are not the man you are. You want me…yearn for me…someone to match you strength for strength and fulfill your inner most desires. Kate, I saw the way you looked at me, the feel of your touch when you thought I might be seriously injured. You wanted to fondle me…to kiss me…to free me from these chains and take me on the dingy floor of this shit hole."

Beckett turned away in disgust, embarrassed that her feelings had been so transparent to Sophia who had apparently been feigning sleep. Fully conscious of the sweat on her brow, despite the cold and dampness of the cell, and the wetness between her legs, she turned to leave.

"Kate, if you don't want to know…"

Beckett stopped, and put her greatcoat down. "Is there anything else you need to tell me…fact or fiction?"

Turner looked earnestly into Beckett's eyes. "No, it is a story, not a myth…and as Rick would write, it doesn't have an ending…yet. The blood from her nose, where Beckett had struck her, now wreathed her lips and dripped down off her chin and between her breasts. Turner shuddered and closed her eyes.

Beckett sensed something, but she was not quite certain what. She approached Sophia and put her hand to the manacled woman's cheek, catching a tear as it rolled downward. She cupped her chin, wiping the blood from it, and bent slowly forward, brushing her lips against Turner's blood red ones. The prisoner looked into her eyes. "Kate," she whispered.

Beckett straddled her legs with her own, pressing her body as close as possible to Turner's. Starting with a tender kiss to her full lips, Beckett initially drew back, but sensing that the former KGB agent was receptive to further such treatment, renewed the effort, searing lips now pressed together in fervent passage, agile tongues intertwined. Teeth sought tender flesh as Beckett's hands passed over Sophia's chest, hovering just above the skin. At first not touching…then cupping…stroking…and rubbing the woman's small, erect breasts. Thumbs found nipples and moved in small circles, massaging and stimulating, while all the while Kate's warm tongue traced wide, wet circles around Sophia's eyes and nose, licking the blood off her mouth. The object of her desire moaned in rising passion.

In response the detective lowered her hands to Sophia's firm, lithe thighs, caressing her tight stomach, and languidly running her fingers between the prisoner's legs, her restrained penetration eliciting a further moan from the mahogany-haired beauty chained to the prison wall. Sophia shuddered and painfully spread her legs as wide as the weight of her suspended arms would support. Kate knelt before her, kneading the strong inner thigh muscles with her hands, while licking, biting, and sucking on that flesh accessible from between the black leather harness that constrained Turner's movement. Closing her warm core, Beckett flicked the tip of her tongue rapidly at Sophia's clit, her expressive response to this new stimulation echoing in the chamber. The detective's fingers and nails alternately caressed and raked the inside of Sophia's olive tinged thighs. As her movements grew firmer and stronger in intensity, Sophia's response grew even louder and more beseeching.

In response, the detective's stomach muscles convulsed and her hips began undulating to a silent internal rhythm. The more her strong hands, long fingers, and moist tongue skated between Turner's legs and massaged her thighs, the wetter she became. Now sweating in the passion of the moment, Beckett drew up, and pulled her jeans down off her hips until they were a puddle gathered around her boots. Closing Sophia again, a pair of fingers slipped into her, while she pleasured herself with the other hand.

The prisoner moaned loudly with the width and depth of the penetration. Her hips began rocking at an increasingly fervent pace, intent on creating the friction that her body…and Kate…so eagerly sought. Sophia's body rocked wildly in its chains, the entire leather harness spasming with the thrust of her orgasm, her lungs grasping for air as her arms thrashed wildly, the pain of her shackles feeding the strength of her climax.

Suddenly the door was thrown open and two drunken, truncheon-wielding gypsies burst in. "Hey, what's going on here whores? Save any for us?" shouted one as he stumbled forward and fell to his knees. Quickly Turner snapped her previously widespread legs together, and raising her right leg as far as possible, struck Beckett, who was on her knees, full in the face.

The detective rocked back, hating the interruption before she had gone over, and reacted in shock to the surprisingly well-placed, powerful blow of her still encumbered lover. Her nose was now bleeding as she slowly regained her feet, pulled her tight jeans up over her exposed legs and hips, and straightened her shirt. To ensure the guards only understood one thing about her relationship with the prisoner, she dealt Turner a glancing forearm blow to the side of the head. With both women bleeding, licking their lips, tasting the sweetness of their own fluid mingled with the salt of their own blood, no one noticed that both seemed to be smiling between the pain.

"Out of here American bitch!" yelled the second guard, and brushing past her, raised the truncheon above his head. "Take this you cunt…and like it!" he roared, and began striking Turner about the head, arms and legs. Soon joined by his companion, who grabbed Sophia's legs and wrenched them away from the wall, the point of impact shifted to her abdomen, crotch and thighs. Now a third guard had come into the cell, and as he fumbled at the belt cinching together his winter coat, Beckett edged towards the archway and left the cell.

Gesturing futilely to the Watch Captain, who thinking of his standing with the Chief had remained distant from the activity inside Turner's cell, Beckett put on her coat. Discretely checking for her weapons, she threw back the door and quickly stepped outside, feeling desperate for the sharp cold and embracing pine tree smell of the Carpathian forests. Behind her, growing increasingly faint, were the cries of pain from one, and yells of lust and amusement from three. Struggling through the snow to gain the road to the gypsy camp, Beckett stopped and bending over in revulsion, vomited into the freshly fallen snow.


	6. Chapter 6

The caravan wagons had been formed in a tight circle about a dozen yards apart. The opponents were moved to opposite ends of the fighting ground. Beckett had shed her greatcoat, containing both her guns and stiletto, in her wagon. Across from her, Sophia appeared dressed in the same attire she had worn in her holding cell two days ago. Nodding in acknowledgement of the detective's presence she approached the center of the makeshift arena, shivering in the cold and dampness. The breathing of both combatants was displayed frostily in the bitter cold of the Carpathian forest night.

Beckett closed her position. "How are you?" she asked, hoping the tone in her voice, if overhead by the largely male audience gathered around the arena perimeter, did not betray any sentiments other than those of desire for victory over her foe. She had argued for a full day with the Chief that his prisoner was now wanted, alive and safely returned to the CIA, who had paid him well. But the gypsy leader was adamant that she was to be killed, if not by Beckett, than by his own people. To turn such a woman over would result in a serious loss of face for him amongst the Romani people. And word that another tribe was closing his camp's position to take the prisoner for their own amusement convinced him that rather than surrender his captive, he would kill her first, as the CIA had originally paid for.

Beckett had only succeeding in getting him to agree that she should do it, in public, in front of his male tribesman. But a further delay in the contest was refused; Turner's fate had to be decided before the others arrived. The detective fervently hoped that the CIA extraction team would come before the two gypsy clans clashed, but she had no indication that such a plan was in the offing. Only the persistent flashing green light on her transponder gave her hope that the situation could be peacefully resolved.

Beckett's attention returned to Sophia. "How am I? How the hell do you think I am, after being serviced day and night by these pigs. But, now aren't you a dear for asking!" retorted Turner. "What the hell is this…some sort of gladiator contest where you get to kill me in public?"

For the male onlookers gathering in numbers, Turner screamed in Russian, "When I have you groveling at my feet…your thighs thrust wide open in supplication…then maybe we'll start where we left off in jail…unless I kill you first!" The ex-KGB agent knew that most of the gypsies would not understand the language; the volume and tone of her voice, and the body language would have to suffice.

Now almost face to face with Beckett, and at a level scarcely able to be heard at the edge of the perimeter, the renegade CIA agent continued in English: "I have been in contact with some of my own people through one of the guards, who I paid particularly well for his help. (She inwardly grimaced recalling the act she had to perform for his assistance). They are coming…soon…as are yours, I suppose. We need to make this good…and last a long time. When we are done, if I am dead, they will kill you also, Kate. Do not trust these people. The Romani live by a different code than you and me. They have little regard for the lives of those not of their kind and race, particularly Western women. They have been too long engaged in the white slave trade in EAstern Europe to feel any sympathy for your situation. Your mission will be over when we are either both alive…or both dead! If you understand, slap me...hard...in the face."

Beckett half sneered (for the gypsy crowd) and half smiled (for Sophia). "Well at least you're back in form," she muttered, as she drew back her right hand and brought it sharply across Turner's mouth. The ex-KGB agent's head rocketed back and she momentarily lost her balance. In addition to still being dressed in the near rags of her imprisonment, Beckett could see that Sophia was weak from her imprisonment and rough handling by the guard force. This was not going to be a fair fight.

"So how to make it seem like one?" She recalled sparring with Castle once in the 12th's gym, going about half speed or better with him, pulling her own punches and over reacting to his, letting him gain seeming advantage over her in what was in reality a careful choreograph on her part. Those tactics were to assuage his male ego. Whatever strategy she devised here was intended to save both of their lives…if Sophia could be trusted. "But could she?"

Both opponents retreated to the outer perimeter of the makeshift arena, now adorned with dozens of gypsies, all in various stages of drunkenness. Beckett continued to be appalled at being forced to perform in front of people she thought were in the CIA's pay, but then it appeared that Turner's people had also proven less than trustworthy. She only hoped that whatever extraction force was inserted in acknowledgement of her GPS transponder transmission had a higher standard of performance and concept of loyalty…and that they would come soon. It was cold…too cold for this kind of entertainment…and the sooner this fight was over, the better. But while Beckett would win, she couldn't destroy her opponent. Turner had to be physically able to withstand the rigors of extraction.

Beckett's attention returned to the makeshift arena as, at the sound of a ram's horn, a roar went up from the crowd. Both contestants charged each other, colliding in the center of the ring. Almost immediately the crowd grew silent, focused intently on the forthcoming struggle between these two Amazonian warriors.

Beckett had cleverly tilted her head forward immediately prior to impact, and her forehead struck the renegade KGB agent sharply across the bridge of her nose. Momentarily stunned as the two adversaries collided, Sophia could not react soon enough to counter Kate's long muscular arms as they shot out and around her body. Locking them together from behind, with the ex-KGB agent's arms pinned inside, Beckett quickly heaved Turner off her feet, squeezing the air out of her lungs. Sophia squirmed and kicked, trying in vain to free her arms pressed hard against the New York detective's chest.

The effect of the bear hug was immediately visible on Sophia's countenance as Beckett flexed her knees and arched her back, briefly relaxing the hold as Tuner slid down inside her grasp. Then the detective's grasp tightened again, only this time her forearms impacted immediately below the KGB agent's rib cage, with clasped fists driving deep into her lower back.

Grunting, Beckett now lifted the small woman higher, the muscles of her upper arms and shoulders standing out in broad relief in the dim light of two dozen torches. Sophia's face began to turn red as she fruitlessly struggled to free her arms. Kate's twin fists pressing deep into the small of her back were causing intense pain in her lower spine, as she desperately wriggled her now sweat-slick body against the larger woman. Turner felt the pressure on her back move slowly upward as her struggles resulted in her body slowly slipping through her adversary's grasp. They were now face to face.

Beckett groaned with the intensity of her strength mixed with lustful pleasure as the writhing smaller woman's breasts pressed hard against her own. Seeking to lessen the ex-KGB agent's slippage, the detective tightened her grip, grinding both pairs of engorged nipples against one another. Looking deep into Sophia's pain-wracked eyes, the CIA agent sensed something more than just the tortuous feelings of the moment. "Even in the heat of combat this bitch is beautiful," she thought!

Beckett's reverie was suddenly and emphatically broken as Turner's right hand, gaining its freedom as her body slid lower, tore at the button and zipper combination at the detective's waist. With a shriek, Kate reared back, still attempting to maintain her grasp on her nubile opponent, but as she lowered her head and flexed her thighs to raise her opponent off the ground again and renew a hold higher on the hard body within her grasp, Sophia jerked her head forward and crashed it into the detective's face.

As blood gushed from Kate's nose and mouth on to her shirt, her encircling grip momentarily went slack and with arms and waist now loosened from her opponent's grip, Turner slid free to the ground. Quickly rising to her knees, she took firm grip on Beckett's lower calves, pulled back hard and sent the stunned and bleeding detective crashing into the dirt of the corral.

Sophia leaped atop her opponent, raised her upper thigh high, and slammed a knee into Kate's crotch, following up with two hard fists into her stomach. In the melee Beckett's shirt was ripped down the front, exposing her chest and bra to flailing fists of the seemingly enraged ex-KGB agent. The crowd loved it.

But Beckett quickly regained her senses and parrying a flurry of punches, drove a hard right of her own into Turner's gut, followed up by a sharp blow to the woman's left kidney. As Sophia grasped her side in pain, the area still horribly bruised from the truncheon-wielding guards of her captivity, the detective quickly levered her right leg beneath her, rolled to the left and threw her tormentor into the dirt. Both women warily gained their feet and began slowly circling one another. Kate tore off the remnants of her shirt and buttoned her jeans. Sophia's halter tap was in tatters, her shorts nearly falling off her narrow hips, but neither contestant seemed concerned about their lack of clothing.

The brief respite from combat was broken as Beckett renewed the attack, sending a flurry of kicks directly at Turner's chest. The ex-KGB agent was forced back across the dozen or so feet to the edge of the corral. The onlookers parted before her, allowing the small of her back to be pressed up hard against a wooden wagon side.

Beckett closed her opponent, snaged her left wrist, twisted, jerked the left arm straight, and then spinning Sophia around, folded it up against her backbone. Turner hopped on one foot as Kate tweaked the half nelson. Bending down, blood dripping from her nose and mouth on to her opponent's left shoulder, in a low voice she hissed, "Quit struggling so much or I will break your arm. We've got to hold out until one of our peoples arrives."

Beckett then maneuvered her victim back to the center of the corral and continued to work on the ex-KGB agent's left arm. Putting continuous strain on the shoulder, she orbited her around the corral center, making certain she could never set her feet.

With the crowd getting restless at the stay in the action, Beckett swung Turner into a standing full nelson. The action tore the remaining tatters of Sophia's top away from her body. The mahogany haired agent's small breasts now jutted out towards the appreciative crowd. Beckett heaved upwards, drawing a cry of pain from Turner's lips. And while the KGB agent grimaced in pain, Beckett's face could be seen over her victim's shoulder, and she appeared satisfied with the hold. She could take Sophia down to the ground and finish her any time she wanted.

Intent on further slowing the action down, Kate abruptly dropped the full nelson and snuggling close to her opponent's back ran both arms across Sophia's stomach and hoisted her off her feet with a series of brutal wrenches. Turner was approaching semi-consciousness, her hair spilling across her face, her mouth open in painful grimace. Beckett was again confident of her hold, and resting her cheek on Sophia's left shoulder, allowed her muscular arms to continue working her opponent's rib cage. Both women, in seeming embrace, now staggered about the corral, Turner's head often lolling helplessly against Beckett, offering less and less resistance.

Holding Sophia from behind in a tight hug, Kate grew careless, and an opponent whose defeat seemed certain to the onlookers suddenly drove her elbow into the detective's side, spun her off balance, broke through her encircling arms, and snared her in a side headlock. Now it was Beckett that was cinched up, her hands groping aimlessly for a purchase as she stumbled in her foe's grip. Sophia shook the hair out of her eyes, a half smile on her face, and pumped her arms several times to announce the shift in the competition's fortunes. The crowd applauded appreciatively; Kate groaned in pain.

As Turner bent further back to put additional pressure on Beckett's neck, the sight of both women's skin slick with sweat, flat stomachs, trim taught legs, and narrow waists quivering in the counter strengths of the moment, was all the gypsy men had hoped to see…and more. "The Gods, this contest would live forever among the campfires of the Romani people," many thought.

Beckett's legs were now quivering as Sophia bulled her around the corral perimeter, scattering the gypsy men as they careened from wagon to wagon. Dragging her hapless opponent back to the center, Turner quickly looped her left leg around Beckett's right leg, released the side headlock and sunk in a standing abdominal stretch. Stretched back over Sophia left hip and side, Kate groaned as her opponent dug her elbow into the detective's burning abdominal muscles.

Bent over at an acute angle, Beckett suddenly pulled both of her feet out from under her and the fight dropped into the corral dirt, both women scrambling to free themselves from entangling limbs. Coming together in a clash of bodies now encased in a mixture of dirt, sweat, and blood, when they finally came to a rolling stop, Kate was on top, but Sophia's legs encircled her waist as the detective tried to pin her arms to her side.

As the ex-KGB agent's naked legs constricted further around Kate's waist, she diverted her hands to try and separate the constricting limbs about her. This was the opening Sophia was waiting for and clasping her own hands together, she drove a stinging blow into the detective's groin…another...and another. Finally Beckett could take no more, and rolling off her adversary and clutching her middle core, she labored to stand.

Finally regaining her feet and staggering away, she clutched herself low. She gazed at her hated…and loved…adversary with renewed respect as she began circling slowly to her left.

But Sophia, sensing the tide had turned in her favor, tore off what little remained of her shorts and re-engaged, approaching the detective with arms wide open as if to embrace a long-lost lover. Kate paused, uncertain of her intent. Suddenly Turner smashed both hands hard into either side of her face. The detective clutched her ringing ears, and in doing so offered up her crotch and chest to Sophia's renewed assault. Two swift kicks into the groin brought Beckett to her knees, but as Sophia's hands tore at the bra and then shifted to a choking grip around her throat, a desperate, stinging blow from her opponent between Turner's legs drove her to her knees.

Breathing the frigid Carpathian air in short, forced breaths, sweat and blood mixed in equal proportion over their bodies, both warriors looked intently at one another. Then in unspoken mutual agreement, both rose slowly to their feet, extended arms above their heads, and grasped one another in a final test. Their naked and near naked, elongated bodies stretched taught with tension and lustful fury. Chests and torsos quivered, stippled stomachs sunk deeply concave under the strain, and heads nearly touched their opponent's shoulder. Rib cages bathed in pale torchlight, dark aureoles and rigid nipples jousting firmly against one another, the crowd was fixated by the kind of combat few had seen.

But the onlookers' fixation with the combat in the corral was suddenly broken when dozens of voices screamed out beyond the perimeter, accompanied by a fusillade of gunshots, spears, and axes flying through the air. While most fell harmlessly to the ground, a few did find their unlucky targets as what appeared to be a rival tribe or clan of gypsies hacked their way into the center of the enemy corral. Their attention was diverted by spying two nearly naked, sweat and blood soaked women, presumably feuding camp followers, scrambling to opposite sides of the corral desperately searching for weapons with which to defend themselves.

Beckett, hobbling to her wagon on the far side of the corral as quickly as her groin injury would allow, grabbed her greatcoat. The stiletto was there, but the Glock 19 was missing; perhaps it had fallen to the floor of the wagon. But there was no time to look for it, and the detective tore out the coat's lining on the left side. Grabbing the Glock 26 and as many 10-round magazines as she could stuff into her pockets and bra, she quickly spun about, flashed her stiletto, and disemboweled a gypsy approaching her with upraised machete. Three more snap shots, fired up close...and three potential assailants fell to the ground writhing in pain.

Looking across the dimly lit corral clogged with swirling, fighting gypsies, and women and children fleeing the combat all about them, in the resultant melee she could see Sophia, unrecognized in her nakedness, fighting for her life against three opponents. Outnumbered, and like Beckett suffering from their still unfinished contest, the olive-skinned woman impaled one opponent with a discarded pitchfork and severely wounded another with an ax. But then she was felled by a forceful blow to her naked back from the wood handle of another ax wielded by a massive, begrimed gypsy.

As the dark-haired women painfully struggled to regain her feet, desperately searching for any weapon that would enable her to stay outside her opponent's long reach, another powerful blow drove her to the ground. With her right leg twisted provocatively beneath her, heaving breasts, sweat covered flanks, light pubic bush and thin thighs glistening in the dim torch light, to the bearded Romani warrior with ax raised to deliver the deathblow, Sophia's body represented all the sexual allure and wanton pleasure obtained by gypsys raiding and plundering enemy camps since the days of the Roman Empire.

He paused to give one final look at the firm, ripe body beneath him, thinking, "This bitch is almost too beautiful to kill."

The fateful pause gave Beckett all the time she needed. Having hobbled halfway across the corral, and seeing the gypsy raise his deadly weapon, she screamed, "No, she's mine!" assumed a shooting stance, and fired off three rounds from the Glock cradled in her grasp. The first round struck the assailant in the shoulder, the second midway down his side, and the third exploded on the right side of his face, blowing his jaw off. Shrieking in agony he fell forward as Sophia rolled away.

Tearing the now blood-soaked axe away from its victim, Sophia Turner stood. Whirling towards Kate Beckett still in her firing stance, the naked double agent raised the axe as if in acknowledged salute. But seeing more gypsies running through the camp entrance towards the corral, with torches and weapons upraised, the CIA agent screamed "Sophia!," dropped her stance, and in a smooth movement ejected the half empty magazine, loaded in a full one, and pitched the Glock in a high arc across the corral and into Turner's hands. The naked agent paused, and raising the handgun above her head…smiled. Both women gazed at one another in mutual looks of surprise…appreciation…and unfulfilled desire.

And then they were upon her.


	7. Chapter 7

VII

Beckett woke with a start. There was someone in the wagon, close…very close. She felt for her stiletto normally lying next to her, but found it missing. And then a cold steel point pressed into the skin under her left ear and soft, ambrosia-scented lips pressed her cheek. "Sophia!"

The slender brunette, barely discernible in the flickering torchlight of the gypsy camp drew back, her fine hair caressing Beckett's cheek. "Hello Kate!" she hissed, drawing out the "o" in "hello."

"And you and all your foolish friends thought I was dead. I know. I watched you and those other idiots look for my body amongst the pile of dead after the attack. You stupid bitch. It will take more than these filthy gypsies to kill me. After all, you were sent her to kill me and you failed…right? Don't you agree, my love…don't you?"

The New York detective carefully nodded her assent, the fine point of the stiletto pricking her flesh.

"Good…now don't be foolish and cry out. I'd hate to slice that pretty little throat above such strong shoulders…and those maiden's breasts that Rick probably can't get enough of." A raspy giggle followed by a throaty cough indicated that the rogue CIA agent, like Beckett, had yet to fully recover from her brutal ordeal at the hands of the Carpathian gypsies.

With the cough, the stiletto's steel had skated across the detective's neck, gently slicing into the skin. "Oh…sorry Kate…as you can see, I am still suffering from the embrace of your loving arms." With another hoarse cough, the blade moved lower, below the New Yorker's chin. Sophia's lips hovered just above Beckett's, her breath blowing warm and sweet on her captive's face, her light brown hair teasingly caressing the detective's bare breasts.

"I am recalled home by those who may not be denied," she continued. "In much that I came to do, I have failed. Much that I have done, particularly concerning you, my love, and Rick, who apparently finds you as enchanting as I do, I would seek to undo. But their summons cannot be denied. Out of the Eastern forests I came, but listen well, you American whore. Fire now smolders east of the Urals, soon to become an all-consuming flame. Ahead lies a time for the West such as has never been seen…people will fall by sword and flame…suffer in captivity…cities and towns destroyed…men butchered…women raped and sold into slavery. Our fire will be all consuming. Nothing will stand in our way."

Beckett trembled, both from words and touch, as she felt her captor's left hand slide lightly down her naked flank, across her belly, and stop. Sophia was holding something above Kate's womanhood, but the stiletto's blade remained hard against her throat, its sharp point penetrating ever so slightly. Even lying perfectly still, the New York detective was bleeding.

"Now I just see those shiny little wheels in your mind spinning. You're thinking of a way to warn your companions, sound the alarm, and after you and they are done with me, ship me back to the States for your CIA sponsors…or for all I know, these fuckin' gypsies will kill me in this stinking hell hole, feeding my body to the stray dogs that frequent the camp garbage dump."

"Hah...you stupid slut! It will never happen. I gave you a chance to join us…to become one of us. You would have been good Kate…hell you are good. You know it…and I know it. You can make almost any man do just what you want…and some women. Remember, I know you in the 'biblical' sense!"

Sophia lowered her left hand slowly. "Spread your legs. And don't be embarrassed. Remember, I've been there, done that." Beckett complied, slowly spreading her legs across the bed.

"Wider bitch!" Sophia hissed. When Beckett could open no further, even with the added encouragement of the stiletto point further digging into her throat, the rogue CIA agent laughed admiringly: "So delicious…I've gotta admit, Castle chose well in finding his woman. And tell me, my well schooled, well trained, NYPD hottie, how is fucking our mutual friend. Does he make you come every time? Do you ever have to fake it with him? With me the answers were 'yes' and 'no.' I'm gonna guess, unless age has taken its toll, those are your answers also."

Beckett refused to respond, but the look in her eyes told Turner all she needed to know. "Well, I guess after all these years you deserved some piece of decent ass. Tell me though, when we were in that dungeon, why did you come on to me. Have you played for both teams before…or did you just feel sorry for me, hung up like some piece of meat?"

When Beckett refused to respond, the rogue agent hissed in barely a whisper, "But of course not, my good little American girl. You still want to be the hero of the 12th, the career woman who can do it all, the woman that every young female trainee looks up to, particularly in those 4-inch heels you wear. You long to be restored to the force and will do whatever it takes to win you badge and gun back."

"I made you an offer to follow me into these wild woods…why won't you do it? Someone make you a better offer you couldn't refuse? Offer to put in a good word for you with the NYPD? Or were you just hired to take me out? What are you now Kate, just a gun for hire like me? If so, I can offer you a lot more than the FBI or CIA can, maybe even more than Castle, though I have a few shortcomings in certain areas compared to him."

Remembering Castle and their nights together brought a faint smile to Turner's lips. "You know, Kate, we would make a good team…maybe all three of us. And I would even let you be on top…sometimes."

When the detective refused to answer, Turner shook her head. "Oh well, time is wasting…and there's always another slut willing to ball for beads where I'm going."

"But before I leave, I have something for you, love." With that she pushed a wide, hard object between the Beckett's upper thighs. Wrapped in thick muslin cloth, in the dim light the detective could not discern what it was.

"Be very still cunt…this may hurt…but rest assured pain is not what I want to cause you! If I had wanted that…you'd already be dead!" And with that, Sophia shifted slightly and jammed her left hand and its contents hard into Beckett's groin. The detective let out a low cry, but the stiletto blade at her throat cut deeper, and she laid still.

"There, now you'll have something to remember me by on cold winter nights. Maybe this will be enough, and you won't have to bed down with this flaccid scum that calls themselves men until you rejoin our mutual friend."

Turner shifted to one knee, but the stiletto remained in place. "Give my love to Rick when you see him again. And Kate…I think I can call you that now that we're such good friends, my love. I owed you my life. And now my debt is paid."

Beckett said nothing; the pain in her groin subsided. But as Turner stood up the stiletto's blade cut deeper. Blood coursed down the detective's throat and on to the horse blanket she was laying atop.

"Oh sorry!" the rogue agent chuckled. "I forgot. I leave you now Kate, to return from whence I came years ago. Waste no time looking for me. Seek not my ashes, for as was said long ago by one far greater than me, 'I am the Lord of Fires.' Farewell my love…until we meet again."

With one final flick of the stiletto…she was gone.

Beckett carefully sat up in bed, pressing her left hand against her throat to staunch the bleeding, while her right sought to remove the object from between her thighs. On feeling its shape she knew immediately what it was. Raising it above her head, the muslin wrap fell off, and the camp's torchlight reflected off the Tennifer finish of her Glock 26.


	8. Chapter 8

Days later, snow swirled around the gypsy caravan as it made its way slowly over Tulghes Pass, heading for winter camp near Borse on the Transylvanian Plateau. The eastern approaches to the Carpathians would be unprotected for most of the winter. But an uneasy peace would be maintained between warring Romani factions. The troublemakers from the east had returned across the border, and sufficient bribes and wine were proffered to keep those remaining west of the river under control for the next several months.

Beckett paused at the control gate guarding further access to Borse and points west. She had been invited to continue with her companions to their winter camp, where contact would be made with the proper authorities to see her taken to Bucharest for a return to the United States. The extraction team had never appeared, but now the Chief of the caravan, concerned with her personal safety since final payoff time was near, had promised her that the way south would be safe. Within weeks she would be back among her own people.

Beckett, still not trusting the gypsy leader, had remained distant and aloof from the rest of the camp. She resented being "sold out" for the fulfillment of some episodic male fantasies, and longed to return to the West, to her own people, and the 12th. She needed the time to rest, heal her wounds, and renew acquaintances, particularly with a writer who had not been far from her thoughts these past several days. As the final wagon gained the paved road and the horses in trail crossed beneath the security gate, Beckett moved to join the last stragglers in the group, following in the wake of the caravan.

But as she fell in step at the end of the column, she again felt the Glock's cold barrel brushing against her right thigh, concealed beneath her greatcoat gathered tightly at the waist. And as she carefully felt the scar beneath her chin, the ache between her legs returned as it had every morning since Sophia Turner's nocturnal visit.

Beckett halted, and as the column marched on, disappearing into the snow-shrouded distance, she turned and looked to the East. "Where was Sophia now? What was she up to? Do I feel for her the desire she clearly feels for me?" The unanswered questions troubled the New York detective, as she remembered the night in the dungeon, and the following day's events in the corral of the gypsy camp. She recalled the gasps and groans, the sweat covered flanks of her nemesis's legs as they were spread widely, both women's bodies as tight as coiled snakes in the dirt of the corral. She took a hesitating step eastward, but then the distant sound of a car and headlights piercing the winter gloom forced her to turn around yet again.

At the door of the guard shack that controlled the gate crossing two men, one having just gotten out of the automobile, the other emerging from the hut, watched a solitary figure make its way slowly through deepening snowdrifts towards them. The border guard pondered the foolishness of anyone who would be tempted to return to the remote fastness of the Carpathians, particularly in weather such as this. But for the other man, there was nothing to consider, no rationale to be contemplated, nothing more than finding and keeping the woman he loved. He quickly ducked under the gate, and half stumbled, half ran towards the distant figure barely visible in the swirling snow.

"Kate, Kate?" he cried. The greatcoat clad figure stopped and a distant voice could be heard, "Castle, Castle?" Both figures were running now, clumsily in the dense snow pack, falling and then quickly regaining their feet and pressing forward. Soon they were as one, clasping each other in hugs, mouths and lips meeting in feverish deliverance.

To the border guard it all appeared foolish. He shrugged and returned to the warmth of the guard shack. He wasn't paid to think about people and what motivated and sustained their love for one another. He returned to warming his hands over the brazier's fire. It was going to be a long, cold winter.


	9. Chapter 9

Coming out of the house, she moved towards the pool, shimmering in the noon day sun. Her white silk robe hung loosely about her shoulders, cut about mid-thigh, five inches above her knee. As she drew adjacent to the chaise lounge, she disrobed, displaying a sexy satin ensemble that revealed much of her womanly assets. A lacy panty rode high on her hips and fit snugly to her ass and crotch. Her bra was a sexy lace and cotton number custom made for her. It plunged low upon her chest with the sheer designer cups barely covering her nipples while revealing much of her well-tanned skin, the result of nearly a month spent in the summer sun of the Hamptons. Her trademark long legs and thighs that seemed to go on forever were accentuated by both their deep tan and the glow of tanning oil applied back in Rick's bathroom.

Sitting a glass of ice tea on the adjoining table, she doffed her robe, and reclined on the lounge, donning a pair of dark sunglasses and a sun hat that had remained from the previous day's routine. The tangled cascade of dark hair stood out starkly against her sun and wind burnished skin. Raising the rear section of the lounge chair to support her back, she opened her Kindle and started the final chapters of "Fifty Shades Freed," all the while inwardly smiling at some of the great ideas Anastasia Steele had given her for their nightly "Fun with Rick and Kate" sessions.

It had been a good year. Back from the Balkans in late October, she had debriefed at Langley. While she had not extracted Sophia Turner as hoped, she was able to provide considerable information as to what she was up to. Beckett elected to disclose nothing regarding the Si Fan organization or Turner's suggested hints of involvement of senior leadership in the United States government. While not necessarily discounting what Sophia had told her, Beckett simply wanted her old life at the 12th back; no more "Special Agent Beckett." She wanted no further involvement with the CIA or shady international conspiracies. And she particularly did not want to discuss her involvement or physical relationship the renegade CIA agent. No one at Langley had asked, and she did not volunteer any additional information. "Never complain…never explain" had been her watchwords during the entire debriefing process, and she was back in the City less than a week after landing at Dulles.

Of course, she had more money in her bank account, transferred from the Caymans to her local New York bank, than she had ever had in her life. She had kept her new found wealth quiet. She would eventually do something special for her father, but for now she wanted to remain off the financial "sudden wealth" radar screen. Langley had ensured her that the IRS would look the other way on her compensation. It was all hers.

And while she wanted to go back to the 12th, she certainly didn't need the money. So she elected to give herself another nine months or so, to both recover from her Balkan assignment, and to completely luxuriate in the tender loving care of Rick Castle.

How great that had been. He never asked her questions for which he knew he would not like the answer, such as "What the hell was she doing in the Carpathian Mountains" when he had met her at the border. He had gotten a brief email describing her location from of all people, Jordan Shaw (!), and had just managed to get there when Kate crossed the border. When he asked "why" her response was a brief "something for the CIA." That would have to suffice.

Beckett reasoned that he could spin whatever fiction his creative impulse led to for his next Nikki Heat book: "Special Agent Heat." She could envision the story board now…the beautiful, feisty, and kind of slutty detective…adrift in the snows of the Balkans…searching for her lover, Jameson Rook…amongst the werewolves, vampires and zombies of the Carpathians; certain to be a best seller!

Her abundant bank account balance had drawn his attention only when she began buying clothes that she only could have dreamed about affording in the 5th Avenue shops a year ago. Just like Anastasia Steele, but her own mission for the CIA, rather than Christian Grey, was her sugar daddy.

But regardless of her recently realized largesse, Rick still was willing to pay for almost everything in their steadily merging lifestyles. Like this bikini ensemble. She loved it…but it was clear that he liked it even more…though frequently it remained on only long enough for his "you look fabulous" remark, before it was left lying alongside the pool. The newly installed privacy fences on the perimeter of his Hampton summer home afforded more than ample opportunity for both of them to lie naked in the hot sun. Tanning lines were almost non-existent for this summer.

The sliding door behind her opened and Rick walked down the path to poolside, carrying a freshly brewed pitcher of ice tea and a FedEx envelope. Sitting both on an umbrella-shaded table he walked over to the chaise lounge, bent over, and removing Kate's sun hat, kissed her full on the lips. Sticking to their daily routine, he whispered "You look fabulous," then gently pushed her forward, unclasping and removing her custom-made top.

The object of his desire eased back on to the lounge chair, and tilting her head up, replied, "Don't you ever get enough?"

"Of you…absolutely not," he replied, gazing at her exquisite breasts, tipped by small, delectable aureoles and long thick nipples. As usual Kate's near nakedness was arousing…exotic…and something he was still not certain he had adequately captured in words when describing Nikki Heat. Further research was needed, and he'd start on that lacy panty as soon as he read this package of material Paula had sent him.

Seating himself beneath the umbrella, he opened the box. He skipped the normal "Why don't you call me back" accusations from his agent (yeah, her anger had some justification, but he was just having too much fun this summer with Kate in the Hamptons), and got to the third paragraph. An agent representing the Elegance Printing and Bookbinding Company of Hong Kong had contacted her regarding the availability of her client, Richard Castle, to write a series of books involving an international conspiracy centered on control of natural and man-made resources. The company cited the continued popularity of the Nikki Heat series in Asia, particularly one that featured a female protagonist possessing the physical and mental toughness normally associated with male personalities, combined with a body to die for. The Jameson Rook character, with another name, could also be part of the plot, but Elegance definitely was interested in the female character, rather than the male one, having the lead.

The fourth and fifth paragraphs delineated in detail that kind of financial compensation involved. Castle's eyes widened at the amount of Coin of the Realm they were talking about. These people in Hong Kong were certainly serious about gaining his services. Hell, he could by a couple of additional houses in the Hamptons with the kind of money they were talking about!

Kate got up from her lounge chair and ducked under the umbrella, approaching Castle so he could engage in one of his favorite events of the day: removing Kate Beckett's bikini bottom. But rather surprisingly, instead she found him engaged in a sheaf of papers that had apparently come in a FedEx envelope. "Anything wrong?" she queried, with her voice betraying a bit of jealousy that whatever information was in the envelope had wrested his attention, however briefly, away from her.

Rick looked up at her and smiled. "Sorry…but this is interesting. Get your ice tea and join me." Intrigued, Beckett returned to the chaise lounge, donned her robe, and just before grabbing her drink, quickly removed her panty. "She'd show him that she didn't need his help to get 'casual'" she reasoned. She returned under the umbrella, removed hat and sunglasses and sat down, stretching her legs full out, her left foot rubbing up against Castle's left ankle.

As the skin-on-skin friction reminded Castle that he was sitting across from the most beautiful woman in the Hamptons, Rick looked up at her and smiled. "I'll be just a minute," he replied to the physical invitation for fun and frolic. Seeing the petulant half-smile on Kate's face, he quickly added, "Honey this is interesting," and summarized the third through fifth paragraphs for her. When done, he looked up from the papers and gazed across the table. He was momentarily taken aback by the intense look Beckett was now giving him, what was known in the bullpen of the 12th as "Beckett's death glare."

"Rick, who sent this package to you? I know Paula forwarded it, but where did it originate from?" she demanded in an insistent voice.

"I don't know. Some small publishing firm in Hong Kong. I've never heard of them…but for their kind of money…I don't have to. You're not going to see that sort of compensation out of Random House or any of the other big ones here in the States."

He looked again at Beckett. She was now gazing out towards the sea, her thoughts seemingly a million miles away. She looked like the detective that he had first seen almost five years ago: lips drawn in, brow furrowed, arms crossed in front of her, the way she got when trying to piece together a time line on her murder board at the 12th.

Reading the final paragraph in the letter, he chuckled. "What?" interjected Beckett in her most assertive interrogator voice.

"Kate, this is really interesting. Paula says a personal representative of Elegance Printing and Bookbinding is flying into JFK tonight…and would like to meet with me tomorrow here at the house. They apparently know, even in Hong Kong, where I live in the Hamptons!"

Beckett abruptly turned her attention back to Castle, boring a hole with her stark stare through the paper he was holding. Noting her intense interest, he quickly added, "For the kind of money they're talking about, Paula has already given my tentative 'okay' but wants to ensure I'm on board with this." Beckett faintly nodded her head in understanding, but the furrowed brow and tight lips remained.

Castle continued, a bit uneasy now that Kate was clearly not comfortable with this. "Honey, Elegance's representative wants to come alone, without Paula, to meet with me. But…and here's an interesting twist…this representative says that she and I have something in common!"

"What?"

"You! Now what the hell does that mean?"

Beckett stared at him, but what she saw instead were swirling snows, a filthy dungeon and chains, a wagon-circled corral, and a Glock 26 glimmering in the light of a dozen torches. She deliberately parted her robe and with her right hand pressed hard against her naked center to stifle an impulse.

"Rick, we have to talk."


End file.
